


And Then All At Once

by prosepoet



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BAMF Steve Rogers, Blushing, Bromance, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Bucky Barnes is the best, Butterflies, Caretaking, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Marine Corps, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sassy Steve, Steve Angst, Steve Feels, Steve Has Issues, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, briefly, poor steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2580380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosepoet/pseuds/prosepoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of James "Bucky" Barnes.<br/>He who, after almost 10 years in war, learned to embrace civilian life.<br/>He who, due to unforeseen circumstances, is learning to be a father to a motherless two year old.<br/>and he who, no matter what it takes, vows to learn how to love a man as broken as Steve Rogers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**16 NOVEMBER 2014**

Bucky’s keys jangle as he tosses them around in his right hand, looking for the one to his brownstone. His hair—dark, chin length, and pulled back haphazardly—falls from its knot into his face and he groans, tucking the bundle of mail he’s holding in his left hand under his arm so he can sift through the keys properly.

Once inside, the warmth of the Brownstone surrounds him, a much appreciated contrast from the cold of the New York streets, and he’s welcomed by the faint smell of lemon that lets him know Catalina’s been by to do the cleaning. He tosses the keys in the wooden bowl that sits on a table by the stairs just to the right of the entrance and makes it a few paces into the living room before toeing off his combat boots and kicking them into the corner. In the kitchen, the mail hits his counter tops with a slap when he tosses it onto the island and on of the legs on the wooden barstool squeak as he settles onto it. 

“Bill. Bill. Coupon.” He mutters to himself, glancing at each piece before tossing it to the side. The last envelope is large and padded—the address indicates it’s from the Veteran’s Association. He quirks his lips up interestedly before he tears it open.

It’s a frame, but before he can retrieve it completely from the padded envelope a folded sheet of notebook paper slips out. His is name scribbled on the front in familiar script.

 

_Barnes,_

_Hey bro, I got this in the mail over at the VA a few of months ago—you know how slow the corps can be sometimes. Anyway, when it came I wasn’t sure you were ready for it but man you’ve made so much progress recently. This is a sign of new beginnings, not old endings, and I trust now you’re in a place where you can understand this. I’m out of town until the New Year, but if you need anything call me. Hell, there’s always a spare room at the Wilson’s if you feel like making the trip to DC, my mom would love an excuse to make a couple extra pies._

_Semper Fi_

_Sam_

_ps: They didn’t frame it for you, that was all me. You’re welcome._

_pps: Really proud of you, man._

He chuckles at the ending of the letter and looks down to the frame.

 

_This is to certify that_

_Master Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes_

_was Honorably Discharged from the_

_United States Marine Corps_

_on the 5 th day of February 2014_

_This certificate is awarded as a testimonial of Honest and Faithful service_

 

His fingers trail over the words through the glass as he reads it again and then a third time and a fourth. Different words stick out to him each time:

_Master Sergeant_

_Honorably Discharged_

_Honest and Faithful service._  

After he reads it a fifth time he chuckles, a rush of air bursting forth from between his lips in a huff, and shakes his head.

Thirteen years ago if you’d ask him what he’d be doing in the future, he probably would have said something like business or accounting. He would’ve imagined himself living in a quaint mid-western town with a steady income and a modest home; he would have predicted he might even have a wife—or a life partner, maybe—and a kid or two.

 

James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes was born to married, middle class parents with average 9 to 5 day jobs in a typical Indiana suburb. As a kid he’d had various cliché character themed birthday parties and been a mediocre player on his little league team; he’d done baking soda volcano science projects and gotten relatively average grades. He broke his arm playing football when he was 11 and wore a blue cast decorated with sharpie signatures, drawings of trees and smiley faces, and scribbled over penises for 6 weeks. In high school he’d floated between crowds, neither particularly popular nor unpopular. The biggest potential for drama in his life had been when he came out as bi-sexual to his parents in the 10th grade; but even then, they hadn’t made a stink about it—his mother had told him to love whomever he pleased and his father had hummed along his agreement. During his remaining years he’d had his fair share of unassuming girlfriends, a couple of nothing-serious male romances, and ultimately graduated neither a virgin nor a sexual indiscriminate. On his 18th birthday he received his acceptance letter to Indiana University—Bloomington and come late-August he’d packed all of his essential belongings into his four door Honda and was prepared to continue his unexciting life an hour and a half away from home in an un-air-conditioned dorm room with a stranger from Ohio. He’d arrived at IUB all set to happily pursue a typical, run-of-the-mill middle-class-American lifestyle

 

…but then, three weeks later, he watched an airplane fly into The North Tower of the World Trade Center and everything changed.

 

Bucky had never been especially patriotic, but he’d also never been an adamant student. Thus, one conversation with an USMC Gunnery Sergeant who’d taken residence in the café amongst recruiters from every and all US Military branch and he found himself caught in the wave of grief and anger that spurred a exponential increase in patriotism post-9/11. By December he’d enlisted in the United States Marine Corps with orders to report to Parris Island, SC for boot camp on January 28th.

His mom had been distraught; thoroughly convinced he would die in an Afghani desert at the hand of Osama Bin Laden himself. His dad, an Army veteran, had been more outdone with the fact that his son had foregone the US Army in favor of the Marine Corps. Nevertheless, their respective qualms aside, his parents had supported his decision and even promised to make the 11-hour drive down to South Carolina for his Boot Camp graduation ceremony.

As it turns out, Bucky was a natural military man. He was one the honors graduate of his boot camp platoon and his combat training company. He’d been promoted to Private First Class before he even made it to Infantry Training School and after the required nine months he was promoted again to Lance Corporal. Though his initial Military Occupational Specialty was Rifleman, he was reassigned Scout Sniper after undergoing the proper trainings at at Camp Pendleton, where he was stationed with the 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines.

His Battalion deployed to Iraq in 2003. Despite his rapport with both hand-to-hand combat and weaponry and his sharp strategic thinking neither he nor his comrades really figured an until-here completely average guy from Indiana would flourish in war. However, flourish he did. His first tour in Iraq ended just as his first 4-year contract with the USMC came to a close and he re-upped without a thought. He worked his was up the ranks quickly, becoming a Gunnery Sergeant in 2007 just six years after he enlisted.

Bucky stayed with the 3/5 and most of their time was spent on deployment between Iraq and Afghanistan. In 2008 he moved up to the position of Master Sergeant and took charge of the 3/5’s weapons company, which was in charge of providing special support for the three rifle companies in the battalion. The men in the company regarded Bucky for his strategic ability to get the entire company in position, attack, and retreat without ever allowing the enemy the opportunity to strike and he became known as one of the most skilled men in the battalion.

 

…but then, in July 2013, there’d been an ambush. He’d ended up with his left arm trapped under a tank and everything had changed.

 

All together he’d spent nearly 12 full years active duty in the Marine Corps. Yet, after the ambush they’d had to take his arm, rendered useless after being crushed by the tank. The VA set him up with a prosthesis from Stark Industries: a nice titanium-alloy coated cybernetic arm that joined around his shoulder.

He’d wanted to go back, but the preparation it would have taken to regain combat readiness with the new arm was far too extensive. Still, he’d pushed through 6 months of intensive rehab anyway, and somewhere around month six he realized it was for naught—he wouldn’t be returning to active duty.  He accepted his honorable discharge at the beginning of February and for the remainder of the month he felt emptiness so profound it was frightening, even to him. All those years being of being ‘nothing special’ had led him to his passion, and it’d been stolen away in 30 swift minutes. Thus, in March, he’d started attending group sessions at the VA—it was where he’d met Sam. Sam had helped him learn to ‘own and accept’ his discharge, kept him from really going off the deep end. Even more than that, they’d hit it off quickly, both being former Marines. He regarded the man as a counselor, but above all considered him a friend.

and Sam is right, its time to think about new beginnings and not endings.

The surgeries for his prosthesis and his rehab had all been in Manhattan, and since both his parents had passed during his third tour in Iraq, he had no reason to return to Indiana after his discharge. So five months ago he’d used some of his savings—and the money his parents had left in his college fund—to buy a Brownstone in Prospect Heights. It had been Sam who suggested he look into housing in Brooklyn instead of Manhattan, and Bucky had to admit he enjoyed the easy-going, comfort of his neighborhood more than the loud, bustling rush of the ‘city.’ He also suspected that Sam thought Prospect Heights would be a lot better for Bucky’s PTSD than, say, Midtown.

Bucky had also begun to look into furthering his education. Surprisingly he had hit it off pretty well with Tony Stark, who was both the head of Stark industries—the top military medical technology manufacturer in the world—and personally involved in constructing and fitting Bucky’s prosthesis. Tony’d told him there was always a place at his company for qualified vets. Over his years in the Marine Corps Bucky had managed to get his Bachelor’s Degree in physics. Since he’d always been pretty good at math and science he was considering pursuing a higher degree in mechanical engineering and taking a position with Stark’s company.

Bucky drains the last of his water from the bottle before chucking it across the kitchen and into the trashcan. He gathers the bills he’d paid electronically, junk mail, and coupons that weren’t for takeout and chucks them in the bin as well, before gathering Sam’s letter and his framed Honorable Discharge certificate to take up to his bedroom. However, beneath the large padded envelope is a smaller white one addressed to Mr. James Barnes from the Marion County Child Protective Services.

Interest piqued, Bucky plops back onto the stool and tears open the envelope.

_Mr. Barnes,_

_I am writing on behalf of the Child Protective Services of Marion County._

_On November 3, 2014 the Marion County CPS took custody of Maya Braddock after her mother, Elizabeth Braddock was killed in action while working with the IMPD._

_As is standard procedure when the State takes custody of an orphaned child, Maya’s DNA was crosschecked with our State databases in an attempt to locate any potential family members. We found a 99.9% paternal match with your DNA._

_Ms. Braddock was survived by no identifiable family members and listed no next of kin or instructions as to who should take custody of Maya in the event of her untimely passing, thus the child has been placed with a foster family and is currently considered a ward of the state. However, in light of this new information MC CPS would like invite you in to our offices to discuss further plans of actions._

_Should you not wish take any responsibilities for this child, the paternal rights waivers forms have been included for your convenience. They can be signed and faxed from any Department of Social Services in the United States or any US Military Base abroad. If you believe there has been an error please contact myself, Jemma Simmons, at (336) 543-2109. Otherwise I look forward to seeing you soon._

_Jemma Simmons_

_Social Worker_

_Marion County Child Protective Services_

 

 

That's the pattern with his life. Just when he thinks he's got it figured out, everything changes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the first couple chapters of this are basically set up, its a little slow, but not too much. i have so many feelings about this story, so i hope you guys like it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Mini-Chapter: bucky and elizabeth

Bucky and Elizabeth dated Bucky’s junior and senior years in high school. She was a year younger than him and moved into his neighborhood when they were in middle school. They started dating mostly out of convenience; come high school all the kids were pairing off and since they’d been friends anyway it didn’t seem like such a bad idea to try adding the romantic element—which for high school-ers mostly meant movie dates and grandiose Valentine’s Day presents. And, of course, sex.

The relationship had been serious in that they were exclusive, but neither of them ever claimed to really be in love and eventually they drifted apart. The break up had been amiable and they’d remained friends throughout the remainder of Bucky’s senior year and even after graduation until Bucky enlisted, but after he left IUB for Parris Island he didn’t see Elizabeth at all for nearly 4 years.

They reconnected while he was on 10-day leave after his parents’ death; she’d come to the funeral to pay her respects. He was an only child with no close extended family, and when Elizabeth found out he’d be going back to an empty home, she offered to keep him company.  Two hours of conversation and three bottles of wine later they’d ended up tangled together on the floor of his parents’ living room, sweaty and sated.

Of course they’d both wrote it off as a one-time thing “for old times sakes.” A mostly-mistake fueled by grief and curiosity and the amount of time it’d been since Bucky had been with an actual person. Yet, every time his leave rolled around he found himself in Indiana, wrapped tight in Elizabeth’s legs. Sometimes it was slow and gentle and Bucky relished the feeling of intimacy, sometimes it was quick and dirty with need, and sometimes it was rough and angry—those were the times when Bucky grieved lost men, lost time, and the cruelty of war itself. But no matter the emotions behind it, the sex was casual. She never asked for anything more and even when she offered to write him, he’d told her not to worry about it.

The last time Bucky’d seen Elizabeth was before his deployment in the summer of 2011. If the kid is his, she’ll be about two years old.

Bucky bites his lip and re-gathers his mail—the letter from CPS sat on top—heading out of the kitchen and towards the stairs. In his bedroom, he ditches the mail on the dresser and falls onto the bed, eyes covered with his arm.

After a while he produces his phone from his jean pockets and dials Sam.

“Barnes, what’s up!? You got my package, I take it?”

“Sam…”

“I know man, no need to thank me, awesome just happens to run in my genes. But really, how you feeling? How are you holding up?”

“I…I have a kid.”

“You—wait, what?”

Bucky huffs a chuckle at the incredulity in Sam’s voice and reads the letter aloud to the receiver.

“Wow man…so I mean I know you probably haven’t thought about it much but…what are you gonna do?”

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair again, causing tangles around the elastic holding it together at his nape. “I guess…I guess I’m making a trip to Indiana.”


	3. Chapter 3

**20 NOVEMBER 2014**

Bucky rubs his hands on his well-fitting dark wash jeans and takes a deep-breath before walking into Marion County’s Child Protective Services office. His hair is tied back neatly into a short ponytail and his white Henley is snug, but not too tight, and smart casual under his dark grey blazer. His black wingtip boots click softly against the tile as he makes his way over to the receptionist.

“Good Morning.” He says. The brunette behind the desk hums her acknowledgement and continues flipping through the paperwork in front of her. Bucky drums his fingers lightly on the counter before continuing. “Uh, My name is James Barnes, I’m—”

“You know I’m not actually the receptionist I’m just sitting here until she gets back from the bathroom.” She cuts in, still not bothering to look up. Bucky’s lips snap closed and he twists his eyebrows in confusion.

“Well I’m here to see Jemma Simmons so if you could—”

The brunette looks up at him over the top of her thick-rimmed glasses. “You’re cute. What did you say your name was?”

Bucky chuckles and shakes his head. “James Barnes. Look I’ll just—”

“Right. Come around here, through that door.” He doesn’t ask questions in favor of heading towards the door she’s indicated. She’s waiting for him on the other side, glasses abandoned.

“Darcy Lewis.” She says, balancing a stack of papers in her left arm to extend her right one for a handshake. “I’m Jemma’s assistant. You’re here about the Braddock girl?”

“Uh yea, Maya.”

“She looks just like you, you know.”

“Oh I…is she here?”

“Not yet, but Jemma set up a visit for you in an hour or so—the foster family is going to bring her by.”

“So…what happens… now, I mean?

“If you decide to parent then we’ll do a full background check—obviously it will be clean, you’re military aren’t you? I can tell. That will take a couple of days, you can visit with her here during that time—just to get acquainted you know. Kids are adaptable but losing a parent and moving place-to-place is still tough, its good to have that adjustment time. We can’t officially release her to you until the background check comes back, but after that you’re essentially free to go. Since you’re the biological parent and there’s no one else vying for custody its really all pretty straight forward.” Bucky nods as they arrive at a door with _Jemma Simmons_ on the nameplate.

“And if…if I decide I don’t want to parent?” Darcy’s head swivels quickly in his direction and she pauses with her hand on the knob, glaring at him icily.

“Then she’ll remain a ward of the state of Indiana, and will probably bounce around a few foster homes until she’s 18, unless she’s lucky enough to get adopted, which isn’t likely these days with so many adopters going to the private sector.” Her words are sharp and tinged with anger. “And you’re a poor excuse for a human being who’s just wasted money on a flight and an entire 3 and a half minutes of my life.” 

She turns from him completely and raps three times on the door. “Jemma your 1:30 is here.” She says before glaring at him one last time and continuing down the hallway.

“You must be Mr. Barnes.” A pleasant brunette woman says, opening the door and drawing Bucky’s attention away from the retreating snappy young assistant.

“Yes, pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“Of course, and you as well. Come in, please. Have a seat.”

He settles into one of the uncomfortable metal chairs across from her desk and twiddles his thumbs as she returns to her standard issue desk chair. The entire office is pretty standard—dark grey carpet and white walls with a couple of paintings and framed degrees; a window with a mediocre view of the city; a couple of fake plants in the corners.

“I haven’t properly introduced myself.” She begins. “I’m Jemma Simmons, one of the lead social workers here at Marion County’s CPS. I was a bit taken aback when I got Maya’s case, we run DNA a lot and we get fathers sometimes but usually it’s a long shot. May I ask how you knew Ms. Braddock?”

“We grew up together in Shelbyville. We had a casual thing, on again off again sort of. I didn’t know about the pregnancy or the ki—or Maya.”

“You hadn’t seen her in the past few years?”

“Well for most of the past 10 years I was deployed in Iraq with the Marine Corps, we really only saw each other when I was on leave. And then about a year ago I was in a pretty nasty accident over there, spent a lot of time in the hospital and in rehab in New York and I…like I said, it was causal. So. I never really thought about checking in on her.” She nods and eyes his arm.

“You’ve been discharged, I take it?”

“I received an honorable discharge in February, after it was certain I wouldn’t be able to return.”

“Are you disabled?”

“I don’t consider myself so, no. They had to amputate my left arm.” He lifts his hand to show his prosthesis. “I was fitted with a cybernetic prosthesis courtesy of the US Government and the Corps. I’m capable of most work, but the rehab it would’ve take to return to active duty within my MOS was too extensive.” She nods again.

“And otherwise?”

Bucky pauses. “You mean mentally?” She nods. “I suffer from some PTSD, but because of my position I was required to go through frequent psych evaluations and see a military psychologist while on deployment. Of course, war is war; there is a degree of trauma involved. There are places and situations I avoid as a result of such. But thus far my PTSD hasn’t significantly hindered me in my day-to-day life.”

She smiles. “That’s great to hear. So, shall we discuss your options here? Obviously the route the agency would like you to take is full custody. Finding adoptive parents for children under care can be extremely difficult and foster homes are often unstable in that kids in the system usually see at least 5 or more before their 18th birthdays. Also, after a trauma such as the death of a parent it’s important for a child to have a stable home environment to cope with and come to understand what’s happened. However, if for any reason you don’t want or feel unfit to parent full time, there is always part-time to full-time preparation. This essentially means you’d have custody on the weekends and during the week you would complete one or more of our parenting classes until you felt prepared to take on full time custody. There’s also open adoption or care, which may a little trickier, but essentially you’re be required to sign over you parental rights and full custody would be given to a foster or adoptive family; however, you would still have access to Maya through pre-arranged communication with the family. Do you have any idea what course of action you’d like to take?”

Bucky presses his hands together, holding the metal one tightly inside his flesh one. On the plane he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what he wanted to do.

He didn’t feel exactly prepared to be a father. He grew up an only child and had never had much experience with children and a life deployed in Iraq didn’t exactly allow for much exploration of his inclinations towards parenthood. However, he did know that when he read the letter—though his initial reaction had been shock and then confusion—he’d never felt dread or regret. In fact, rereading it in bed that night he’d been almost a little hopeful; He had a nice house and the potential for a great job. He had Sam and his PTSD was under control. He was finally owning and accepting his discharge. Things were better—good, even. He was 31 years old and after an unexpectedly turbulent journey he’d found himself in a fairly good place in life. Being a dad didn’t seem like so bad of an idea. He might not have the slightest idea as to _how_ to do it, but it seemed…right.

“I…I’ve been thinking about full custody.” He answers. Jemma’s face glows.

“Oh, that’s wonderful news!” She beams. “I may’ve heard Darcy telling you earlier but we will need to run a background check as is standard procedure being that the State is currently Maya’s official guardian. It should come back in 3-5 days during which you can have visitation but cannot take Maya more than a quarter of a mile from the CPS site without supervision.” Bucky nods.

“Jemma, Mrs. Scott is here with Maya.” Comes Darcy’s voice over the intercom on Jemma’s desk phone.

“Perfect, we’re just finishing up here. See them to visitation room 3 please.” She holds down the ‘intercom’ button and replies. “We can always handle the paperwork later. Why don’t we take you to meet Maya?”

Bucky’s surprised at the butterflies he’s feeling in his stomach. He swallows and forces a smile. “That sounds great.”

 *

Bucky notices several things when he walks into the visitation room: there’s a middle-aged woman sitting in a rocking chair against the back wall, the floor is wooden and all four walls are painted a different bright color, there’s a table on the right side with only two chairs, and there are large toddler Lego’s and blocks scattered across the floor. However, he notices all of these things in passing, as his eyes go directly to the little bundle standing in the middle of the room studying a green jumbo Lego intently. She’s wearing a little tan pea coat and collar of her red turtle neck sticks out of the top. Her chunky little legs are covered in black tights and her small feet clad in shiny Mary Jane’s. Her hair is dark just like his is and tied up into pigtails. Thick bangs, cut a little too long, hang right at her eyebrows framing her wide icy blue eyes. Bucky thinks she’s the most beautiful child he’s ever seen.

She turns when the door opens and looks from him to Jemma and back again curiously.

“Hi Maya.” Jemma waves. “I’ve got someone here who is really excited to meet you. Do you want to come and say hi?”

Maya looks at Jemma while she talks, but doesn’t answer her question. Bucky can see the way she ever so slightly shies into herself before letting her head fall towards the ground, eyes trained on the block in her hand. He takes a slow step into the room, moving only a couple of paces closer to the little girl before dropping onto one knee.

“Hi Maya.” He says gently. “What’s that you got there? It looks really neat.”

She peers up at him with wide eyes over her incredulously thick eyelashes. She studies him for a moment before looking back down to the object in her hand.

“Bock.” She nearly whispers.

“A block? Wow!” She glances up again, eyes hopeful at his enthusiasm. “Could I hold it?” Bucky asks. She hugs the block closer to her chest and worries her lip for a minute before turning and running towards the back of the room. Bucky’s heart sinks at the thought that he’s scared her away, but a few seconds later she comes teetering back with a red block and holds it out to him.

“Hol dis wun.” She says, still clutching the green one to her chest. Bucky smiles and takes the block from her small hand.

“Thank you. Do you like blocks?” He asks her. She looks up and nods enthusiastically. “Yea? Do you want to build something?” She furrows her brow and Bucky can’t help but chuckle at her look of confusion.

He spots several blocks within an arms stretch and reaches over for them. “Here, I’ll show you. Like this, see?” He says as he stacks them one on top of the other. Maya looks curiously from a distance as he does so and when he runs out of blocks she only hesitates a second before offering him hers.

“Bil sumfin?” She says and again a smile tugs at his lips.

“Why don’t you try?” He suggests, taking a block from the top of the short tower and offering it to her. Eventually he disassembles his entire little tower and she takes from the pile to build her own.

“aw gone.” She says when she’s done.

“Why don’t you go get the other ones, and we can make a taller one.”

“Taw-er wun!”

“Yea, but we need more blocks.” She nods dutifully and scampers off, returning with an armful of blocks of plopping down onto the floor.

Her attention is drawn away momentarily when she catches a glimpse of Bucky's metal hand. He can nearly see the gears turn in her head, and he watches her as she think with a furrow brow. He can't imagine what she'll come up with and he doesn't know how to explain a cybernetic prosthetic to a two year old. This should be interesting, he thinks. 

"It my hand." He offers, when she doesn't say anything. He holds it out to her, reaching slowly as to not scare her. Maya looks at her own hands and then at his once more and frowns when she  takes his hand in hers, turning it turning it to look and the palm and then the back.

"Iss you hand?" She asks looking up at him with wide questioning eyes. 

"Yep, its my hand." He nods, very gently closing his metal fingers around her chubby little hand and wiggly it playfully.She studies it a couple seconds longer before she seems to accept it, just like that.

"Otay." She says. He lets go and tickles her with the same hand, pleased when she bursts into a fit of giggles.

Forty-five minutes later and she’s inched her way into Bucky’s lap and they've gone back to the Legos. Together they happily assemble, disassemble, and reassemble the blocks into various types of shapes and towers. After a while she yawns and rubs at her eyes, frowning.

“Mama…I wan mama” She whines. Bucky’s heart sinks in his chest, heavy with sympathy for this child—his child—and grief for his dead friend.

“Hey hey,” He says in attempt to distract her. “Are you done building?”

“I-I wan mama…” She whines again, tears welling in her eyes.

“Ok. Its Ok.” Bucky rushes, suddenly anxious. “What about a story? Want me to read you a book?”

“Weed?” Maya sniffles, one chubby little hand still pressed to her eye.

“Yea, look, there’s a whole book shelf! C’mon, lets go pick one.”

At the book shelf Maya selects _The Cat in the Hat_ and though she doesn’t perk up, she doesn’t have a melt down. Instead she climbs into Bucky’s lap and listens as he reads to her. When Bucky finishes the last page, he looks down and realizes the little girl is sleep against his chest, her mouth hanging open and her head dangling to the side. His heart warms at the sight and if he’d had any doubt that he wanted to be this child’s parent, it quickly seeps away.

Gently he shifts her so that she is cradled in his arms mostly so she doesn’t get a crick in her neck but also so he can snuggle her closer, suddenly full of the urge to protect her from all the potential dangers of the world.

He’s not exactly sure that he’s allowed, but he pulls his phone from his pocket with the arm that isn’t holding Maya and snaps a picture, sending it to Sam. He follows the picture with a quick text.

_I’m totally screwed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i usually update everyday?  
> nahhhhh. but I'm anxious to get this off the ground to see if people like it.  
> kudos. comments. ya know.  
> also if you follow me on tumblr theres a 100% chance I'll follow you back, reblog almost everything you post, and probably try to be your best friend. if that sounds cool check me out at stverogersthat.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Mini-Chapter: daddy daughter cuteness

**21 NOVEMBER 2014**

 Bucky arrives and the CPS office in black jeans and a grey plaid button down under a darker grey half zip sweater. He deposits his keys into his back pocket with his left hand; a backpack dangles from the fingers of his right.

Though he’d been uncomfortable with it, he’d left a little after Maya fell asleep the day before. Both Jemma and the foster mom—a woman named May Parker—assured him that it was quite alright, but even though he realized Maya didn’t know him from Adam it still felt like abandoning her, leaving her to wake without him after he’d been there as she fell asleep.

In the rental on his way back to the hotel, he’d got to thinking about how even though he had the strongest urges to protect this little girl and give her the world, he didn’t know exactly how he would go about doing so. How would he explain to her that he was her dad? Did she understand what that mean? What if she didn’t understand? Would she leave with him? She seemed to like him, but that didn’t mean she would want to go with him. What if today had just been a good day, and tomorrow she wouldn’t even come to him? He found himself bypassing his hotel and taking the rental car to Target instead. He’d never been the type to think you could buy love from anyone, not even a child, but gifts couldn’t hurt in this situation, right?

Bucky didn’t know much about shopping for kids, but he’d gone dutifully through the toy aisles, looking for things he thought Maya might like. He found himself strangely enamored with a little stuffed bear in a domino mask and a blue and red uniform and even more amused with the one beside it dressed as Captain America. He’d smiled as he tossed them both into his cart. Eventually he added a bottle of bubbles—kids liked bubbles, right?—, and green ball before heading for the books. Though he was tempted he didn’t buy the entire Dr. Seuss collection, settling instead on just The Cat in the Hat—which Maya seemed to enjoy—and Green Eggs and Ham, which had been one of his favorites. He’d grabbed a toddler sized yellow back pack to put the things in and pulled himself away before he succumbed to the temptation to buy all the things the superstore had to offer.

Now, he squeezes the strap of the backpack tightly as Darcy leads him down to the visitation room. None of the things in the bag offer answers to the questions he’d been asking himself yesterday, but it still calms his nerves a bit, knowing that he has a cheat sheet of sorts. If all else fails, he has the books and the bears, the ball and the bubbles, to fall back on.

Darcy leads him into the same room as yesterday, and like yesterday Ms. Parker is sitting in a chair at the back and Maya is in the middle of the room. Her coat is on the floor where she managed to wriggle out of it, leaving her in her navy corduroy overalls and white turtleneck. Her hair is tied up into the same pigtails and when she turns and sees Bucky she smiles. 

“Hey!” She greets enthusiastically. Bucky is confused when she runs in the other direction, but smiles when she returns with an armful of blocks. “C’mon! Les bil somfin!”

They build for a while before she loses interest and points to the backpack with a curious “Whas dat?”

Bucky shows her the things he brought for her one by one. She squeals in delight at the bears, giggles and awes at the bubbles, insists on playing catch for 20 minutes with the ball and an hour later they finally get to the books. He reads them both twice and then she ‘reads’ them, turning through the pages and repeating the phrases she remembers.

Like yesterday, she yawns later in the afternoon and whines for her mother. Also like yesterday Bucky’s heart sinks.

“Hey, its ok. C’mere.” He says, reaching for her. She crawls right up into his lap, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m sorry your mama isn’t here…”

“Mama…” She whines again, sniffling now as the tears escape. Bucky holds her close and rocks a bit.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. But I’m here, ok?…Daddy’s here now. Its ok.” Her head is pillowed on his shoulder and she cries silently as he repeats it to her over again. “Its ok Maya. Daddy’s here.”

After a few moments she wraps her little arms around his neck and sniffles. “Denny?”

 _Daddy_ he knows she means and he smiles at the unusual mispronunciation.

“Daddy’s got you, Maya.” He reassures her.

He doesn’t know if she understands, if she gets what he means, or if it even matters, but when she sighs and finally begins to drift off to sleep against him, something inside of Bucky tells him she knows exactly what he’s trying to say. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> introducing Captain Steve Rogers

**4 DECEMBER 2014**

 “Ee ee. Ee ee peas denny peas!” Maya cries from the floor, tugging on the leg of Bucky’s jeans. Its been three days since they got back and things had been mostly ok until about 5 minutes ago when Maya started asking for something Bucky couldn’t comprehend. He’d knelt closer and asked her to repeat it, but after the third time she’d started to get frustrated. Bucky runs his hand over his face and sighs, taking a deep breath.

“Maya I don’t—”

“Peas denny!” She wails. _Please daddy! Please!_

“I don’t know what you’re saying!” Bucky shouts in exasperation. He feels bad as soon as the loud voice passes his lips and even worse when Maya begins to cry harder. “Hey. Hey, I’m sorry. Daddy’s sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

He scoops her up with one hand and holds her on his hip, wiping her face with his right hand. With closed eyes he rocks and shushes her until she’s whining softly instead of sobbing. “I don’t know what you want Maya… Can you show me? Where is it?” She’s laid her head on his shoulder now and point towards the kitchen with a sniffle. “In the kitchen? Ok. Now where?” He asks as he carries her into the kitchen. She points towards the refrigerator.

“ee ee.” Bucky chuckles and shakes his head, running his free hand through his hair.

“Eat? You want to eat?” Her eyes brighten and she nods enthusiastically.

“Ee ee!” He opens the fridge and frowns when he finds in mostly empty. Yesterday and the day before they’d had takeout and snacked on some fruit he’d had in the fridge, but today it was looking like they would need to make a trip to the store soon. Still, he had hungry two year old that was adamant about eating ASAP. He rummaged through the cabinets and came across a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

“How does mac-n-cheese sound?”

Maya grins and claps her hands. “Maca sheez!”

 *

Once Maya is all fed Bucky changes her out of her now ruined t-shirt and into a yellow, pink, and navy floral patterned dress, a yellow cardigan, pale pink sweater tights and her oxfords, pulling on her tan pea coat and a matching cream hat before slipping into his own coat and shoes.

“Ready?” He asks, looking down at her. She reaches for him with both hands and a smile.

“Pick me uh?” Powerless against her cuteness, Bucky scoops her up and they head out into the early December cold.

 *

For the first half of the trip Bucky pushes Maya through the store in the shopping cart where he can properly monitor her and her grabby hands. However, for Maya, being strapped in the wire cart gets old quick and they’re on the aisle 10 getting cereal 20 minutes in when she whines to get down. Ill-prepared for handing a temper tantrum in the middle of Fairway Market, Bucky lifts her down and stands her at his feet.

“Don’t move.” He instructs her seriously and she nods, looking at the colorful animals and shapes on the boxes of all the kid-friendly-high-fructose-corn-syrup-laden cereals. Three minutes later he’s finally decided to get Kix for himself and Honey Nut Cheerios for Maya.

“Ready My?” He says looking down to where Maya should be—only she isn’t. His heart sinks down through his stomach and right out of his ass and he can feel the blood draining from his face. “Fuck!” He murmurs spinning around and scanning both sides of the aisle before taking off, shopping cart abandoned. “Maya!” He shouts, dashing to the right at the end of the aisle, scanning each row with a trained sniper’s eye as he runs to one end of the store and then to the other.

It’s been only about 2 minutes, though it feels more like 2 hours, when he spots the dark brown pigtails on aisle four; there’s a man—strong build, blond hair—bent on one knee before her. Though the man is wearing a kind smile, Bucky still isn’t sure whether he wants to punch him or hug him—he can’t exactly gauge the stranger’s intentions from the end of the aisle. By the time Bucky gets close to them the guy is standing and taking Maya’s hand—the only reason Bucky hasn’t shouted and ran to them is because he’s, surprisingly, thinking logically enough to be afraid of scaring Maya, who’s posture suggests she’s already afraid. He’s frightened her once today and the guilt still eats at him; he’s grateful that his years of military training allow him to control himself. The blond offers Maya a last reassuring smile before looking up. When he sees Bucky his smile grows.

“I take it I’ve found what you’re looking for?” He jokes. Before Bucky can reply Maya snatches away from the blond, jumps into Bucky’s arms, and bursts into tears. Bucky’s guilt grows; he knows it’s been difficult for Maya. Though she may be too young to understand death, she’s clearly old enough to understand loss—she Bucky can tell that she misses her mother by the way she occasionally asks “where’s mama?” and always calls out to her at bedtime. The fact that she doesn’t understand _why_ her mother isn’t around probably only makes it that much worse. Plus, she’d had to adjust to a new foster family only to leave a couple of weeks later and in the past week she’d began to cling to Bucky. He couldn’t be sure whether it was some parental bond or just Maya’s need for _some_ sort of closeness that had caused her to respond to him as she had, but he’d gone and lost her in a supermarket and he can’t imagine the separation anxiety she must be feeling.

“I’m sorry, baby girl, I’m so sorry.” He murmurs, rocking her gently. He kisses the top of her head. “Its ok. I’m here. See? I’m here now it’s ok. You’re ok.” She settles, sniffling with her head pressed under Bucky’s chin and he sighs. The blond is still standing there, a curious look in his eye and a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Bucky swallows as he drinks in the man’s features for the first time—his shoulders are broad and taught, muscles undoubtedly firm beneath the soft-looking fabric of his gray sweater. His chest is just as broad and tapers down in a V to his hips, on which sit comfortable fitting black jeans. His face is chiseled—cheekbones high but not unnaturally so, brow bone strong, nose just slightly crooked like maybe he’d been in one too many fights. Bucky tries not to pause at his puffy pink lips but his dusk-sky blue eyes are really no less of a distraction.

“Uh, thanks.” Bucky says, extending his right hand. “For finding her. I don’t usually lose my kid in the grocery store, in case you were think of calling child protective services or something.”

The man chuckles and when he smiles his lips pull back to reveal pearly white teeth and faint crows feet appear at the corners of his eyes. “Nah, its obvious you’re a great dad.” He replies, extending his hand as well. Bucky covertly watches the movement, noting the ripple of muscles from shoulder blade to forearm. A metal bracelet catches his eye on the man’s wrist, reflecting light from the store’s florescent overheads.

“Bucky,” He introduces himself. “Oo-rah.” He adds when he notices the plate on the silver bracelet has an embossed Eagle, Globe, and Anchor—the emblem of the Marine Corps. The man’s smile widens.

“Steve. You Marine Corps?”

Bucky nods. “Master Sergeant James Barnes. 3rd Battalion 5th Marines. Weapons company operations chief, 12 years active duty.”

“Captain Steven Rogers. 1st Recon Battalion 1st Marines, Force Recon Company. 15 years active duty.” Bucky is surprised when Steve’s cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink, and he smirks internally at the man’s modesty before giving a low whistle.

“Wow. Impressive.” Bucky chuckles. Steve shrugs. “and Captain Force Recon just brushes it off like its nothing.”

“Hey, I just did what my country needed me to do.” He says with a small smile. There’s something about his voice—not bitter but almost a bit sad. From what Bucky knows about Force Reconnaissance, it isn’t a position you choose, it’s a position that chooses you.  Its essentially the Marine Corps equivalent to the Army Rangers or Navy SEALs, except in a lot of ways harder and much more dangerous. He can’t imagine what those blue eyes have seen, what nightmares haunt Steve’s dreams at night. Bucky eyes the man for a moment, and this time he sees more than striking good looks. There’s a dejected look in his eyes—even though they’re wondrously blue they don’t shine or twinkle with his smile. There’s a bit of scruff growing on his face, not enough to suggest it’s a part of his look, but more like he couldn’t be bothered to shave for the last few days. He stands up straight, but his shoulders are a little high; Bucky imagines this means he must be tense. After a second, Bucky nods.

“Yea…I get that.” He tells him. “How long you been back?”

“About 9 months, now. I uh, was captured behind enemy lines. Spent 6 months a POW. They sent me home after that.”

“Fuck.” Bucky mumbles. “How’d they find you? Unless that’s above my pay grade.”

Steve chuckles. “No, uh actually I escaped.” Bucky is stunned for a second but when he finally regains his composure he laughs in disbelief. Steve smirks.

“You think I’m amusing…” He says, less as a question and more as a general observation.

“Not amusing, I’m just…its sort of unbelievable, I guess.”

Steve nods. “So I’m guessing you’re home because of that arm?”

“Yea,” Bucky glances at his titanium arm, currently cradling an almost-asleep Maya to his chest. “Ambush, got crushed under a tank. The rehab was a bitch.”

“I’ll bet. Well, on the bright side at least you get to be back with your little girl.” There’s that sadness in his voice again and for some reason Bucky finds himself wondering who this man had to come home to, if anyone at all.

“You sound just like my friend Sam, ever the optimist.” Bucky laughs.

“Sam Wilson, from the VA?”

“Yea, you know him?”

“Yea, met him my there a while ago.”

“Y’know I’ve never seen you at the group meetings down there? You should come by.”

It’s Steve who laughs this time. “Now _you_ sound like Sam.”

“Oh God, I do.” Bucky realizes with a grin. “Don’t tell him. He’ll never let me live it down.”

“Mama.” Maya whines gently before Steve can reply. Her eyes are closed but her face is scrunched up in confusion and she grips the front of Bucky’s coat with one hand. “Peas mama.”

“Sorry, I’d better let you go. Someone’s had enough daddy-daughter time for the day?” Steve comments. Bucky winces.

“Her um…her mom died. A few weeks ago. It’s a…it’s a long story. But still I’d better get her home.”

Steve sombers. “Oh I’m sorry. Gosh, I’m an idiot.”

“Its fine.”

“Mama!” Maya whines again, a little louder this time. Her voice cracks and a few tears escape from between her closed lids.

“I’m going to go.” Bucky repeats. “But you should stop by the VA, for an actual meeting.”

Steve nods, expression still somber as he watches Maya cry in her sleep. Bucky swallows against the knot in his throat and offers the man a smile before turning to leave. His cart of groceries is left in whatever aisle he abandoned it as he heads straight for his car: they make it there before Maya starts crying in earnest and Bucky takes her into the front seat with him to soothe her.

“Daddy’s here, its ok sweetheart. You’re not alone. I’m here, Daddy’s here.” He whispers. Ten minutes later she’s quiet and sleeping once again and he twists awkwardly to put fasten her into the car seat in the back, glancing at her in the rearview mirror before he shifts the car into reverse. As he’s pulling away he spots Steve exiting the store, huddled against the cold wind. Without the smiley pretense he’d been apparently putting on for Bucky, he looks despondent and lost. The entire ride home Bucky thinks about that doleful face, and he wonder what this man’s story could be.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mini-Chapter: Steve's nightmares

**7 DECEMBER 2014**

There are a lot of things to hate about the desert; the dry, stifling heat that settles on your face and chaps and blisters your skin; the endless expanses of sand and strangling dust that blow up into your nostrils and seem to dry out your insides; the relentless, blazing scorch of the sun that beats down like an abusive father and only goes away with the settling of the frigid night; the night, as cold as the day was warm, wildly disorienting and biting.

What Steve hated the most was the silence. It’s the type of quiet that isn’t really quiet at all—a stillness so overwhelming that sounds as faint as the breeze whisking through the air and the kick of gravel with the steps of some small scaly reptile are audible. Lying in wait for hours—sometimes days, until conditions are right, every target is in place, and its time for his team to move in and handle business—the silence grates on the back of Steve’s nerves, challenges the training that has conditioned him to be dangerously still, perfectly calm, and deadly silent himself; it whispers anxieties into his veins.

And then he was captured. It happened while he was providing a diversion after the spontaneous arrival of the enemy turned what was supposed to be a clean-up into a blood-bath. Some of his men died, but thanks to him, most escaped; nevertheless, he was taken. They dumped him in a covered pit 12 feet deep and stone on all sides, barely wide enough for him to lie down. The silence, the same too quiet non-quietness that tortured him in the desert, seeped into his skin and threatened to drive him mad. The same anticipation, only now he lie in wait of the sound of the footsteps and murmuring voices that signaled they were coming to bring him up, to torture him.

There are few things Steve hates more than the silence.

Now, he pads through his apartment shirtless and with bare feet. The night is quiet and he’s restless. He double-checks the deadbolt on the front door, unlocks and relocks the windows, and collapses onto his bed with a sigh. He turns on the app for his phone that plays ambient noise, but it doesn’t soothe him; he finds the stillness and quiet continues to grate on his nerves, every so slowly quickening his heart beat as the anxious energy settles within him—he waits, for a signal, for an enemy, for a captor.

 _You’re not in the desert. You’re in New York._ He tells himself and in reality he knows its true but he still finds himself waiting, anticipating a tragic end to the silence wrapping around him. Because that was the thing about silence, it always ended in chaos.

With a heavy sigh Steve heaves himself upward, throwing off his blanket and glancing at his alarm clock. 03:05. For the 4th time tonight he moves through the house, he double-checks the deadbolt on the front door, unlocks and relocks the windows, but this time he settles on the couch with the remote. There’s nothing especially interesting playing—infomercials for magically absorbent towels and super sharp knives, re-runs of black-and-white TV shows and classic football games, kids shows. He settles for a documentary on National Geographic about the bald eagle, listening with about a mild level of interest as the narrator chronicles the baby eagle’s journey to adulthood. The man’s voice gradually turns from a clear and articulate distraction in Steve’s ear to a mild hum as his lids fall close and sleep takes him.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps right away, not clearly anyway. They’re more like a miniscule addition to the not-sound sounds that float around in the silence, until they aren’t. Until they’re heavy steps, the clomping sound of boots on packed sand and they grow louder and louder in his ears until he knows the man with the heavy steps is at the mouth of the cave. Boots on sand turn to boots on rock and cement and the footsteps echo now. Steve swallows, already repeating his name and rank in his head, preparing his body for what’s to come. The man hauls him up quickly—he could probably take the man in a fight, except he isn’t sure the last time he’s had food, his body feels like it might collapse under the stress of walking let alone fighting. Worse, the man has a gun.

The quiet persists as the man shackles his arms and ankles, and the sound of chains dragging against rock add to the drumming of heavy boots as they head through the winding paths of this under ground cavern.

It persists as he’s shoved into a room with a chair that looks like it belongs in a dentist’s office and a table with an arrangement of sharp things that look painful.

It persists even after another man has come in and strapped him to the chair; continues intermittently in the long stretches between the questions the man asks him in broken English. Even when the man tuts and grabs the screwdriver from the table the silence persists—continues enough for Steve to hear the click of the mans shoes—shoes that aren’t boots—for him to hear the scratch of the tool as the man moves it from the tray, for him to hear the stutter of his own heart.

And then the pain starts and Steve’s screams break the silence.

Steve awakes with the sound of his own screams, trembling and sweating and frankly terrified. On the television, the documentary about eagles has turned to a special on World War II and he rubs a hand over his face as he clicks the television off.

The digital clock on his cable box says 05:18 and he sighs. For the 5th time he gets up and moves through the house, double-checking the deadbolt on the front door, unlocking and relocking the windows. He doesn’t try to go back to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**12 DECEMBER 2014**

Bucky has a mouth full of Kix and is watching Maya eat her Cheerios between bouts of drawing on her high chair tray with milk when his phone pings on the counter 

 **9:53** Sam Wilson: Barnes I need a favor…

 **9:54** James Barnes: What’s up, man

James Barnes: Everything alright?

 **9:55** Sam Wilson: All is well. 

Sam Wilson: But I need a facilitator for the group today at 12.

 **9:55** James Barnes: …

James Barnes: You want me to lead a session?

James Barnes: ?!*

 **9:56** Sam Wilson: Its not even rlly like leading

Sam Wilson: Just… facilitating. 

 **9:56** James Barnes: Sam…

 **9:58** Sam Wilson: I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t think you could do it!

 **9:59** James Barnes: What if someone needs advice or something?!

 **10:02** Sam Wilson: Be honest. you’ve come a long way Barnes, you have a lot of advice & xp. to offer. I don’t think you’ll say anything that’s gonna cause anyone to have a break down.

Sam Wilson: & you can always say I don’t know. Plus you know group is just sharing.

Sam Wilson: I’ve asked everyone, no one’s available. you’re the only other person who’s been to enough sessions to be able to do it

Sam Wilson: Please! I’ll owe you D=

Bucky sighs and rubs his hand over his face.

 

 **10:04** James Barnes: What about Maya? I don’t have a sitter…

 **10:05** Sam Wilson: I mean its not actually like going into battle. Take her with you.

Sam Wilson: It could be like that time we brought in the therapy dog

 **10:05** James Barnes: You did not just compare my fucking kid to a dog….

 **10:06** Sam Wilson: Ok not _just_ like that time but you know what I mean

 **10:06** James Barnes: …

 **10:07** Sam Wilson: Does that mean you’ll do it?

 **10:08** James Barnes: You owe me, Wilson…

 **10:09** Sam Wilson: Put it on my tab.

Sam Wilson: you’re the best, man!

 

Bucky shakes his head and drops his phone onto the counter, shocked at what he’s agreed to do. _How hard could it be?_ He asks himself. After all, Sam is right; the group sessions are all about sharing, focused more on the group connecting and helping each other than on the facilitator or leader counseling or providing advice. He can do this. Its no big deal.

“I can do this.” He says out loud. “Right, Maya?”

“Yes denny! You ca do iss.” Maya enthusiastically replies. Bucky looks over at her, holding her cup of juice in one hand with milk all over her face and tray. He shakes his head and smirks; at least she’d eaten the cereal.

“Okay, lets do it then.”

“Otay!”

 

Bucky and Maya make it to the VA by 11:45 and he strides in with her by his side, clinging to his index finger. Today she’s wearing a black and white polka dotted dress, black tights, and her yellow backpack. On her feet are miniature combat boots Bucky’d seen in a store window and hadn’t been able to stop himself from purchasing. He’s pretty sure they’re technically for little boys, but to hell with it, he’d never understood the gendering of children’s clothes anyway. Bucky’s wearing his combat boots as well, with black skinny jeans and grey pull-over sweater zipped down at the neck.

 

“Oh my god!” Sharon exclaims at the front desk coming around it and bending over to talk to Maya. “You are adorable. Look at you and your dad’s matching shoes!”

Her cooing summons a few more women that work administration in the VA and Maya clings shyly to Bucky’s leg with the hand that’s not holding his finger as they fuss over her. Bucky allows them about a minute of gushing before he smiles politely and hoists the little girl up, taking a few steps away from the group.

“We got a session to get to, right Maya? Tell everyone good-bye.”

“Bye bye,” She waves as Bucky carries her away from the crowd and into the group session room. There are about 30 chairs in a loose circular formation. One is already occupied.

The occupant turns when the door closes heavily behind Bucky and Maya and Bucky is pleasantly surprised to find it’s the man from the Fairway…Steve. However, he isn’t quite so happy to see the dejected look on Steve’s face—one not even his smile can hide given the weak nature of it. His face is sort of pale and his eyes look red and tired. The purple bags beneath them suggest he hasn’t been sleeping.

“Hey. Rogers, right?”

“Uh, yea. Steve.  James Barnes?” Bucky nods.

“Yea but everyone calls me Bucky.”

“Bucky, right. and you…” He smiles down at Maya. “What’s your name, little bit?”

“Maya!” Maya answers proudly.

“S’nice to meet you, Maya.” Steve says taking the little girls hand and shaking playfully.

“Hey Maya, how do we say hello to Marines?” Bucky suggests.

Maya grins. “Oo-rah!” She exclaims. Steve’s smile widens.

“Oo-rah to you, too.” He laughs and even though he still looks tired and worn out, Bucky is glad his smile seems a little less forced now.

“Glad to see you made it by.” Bucky tells him.

“Yea…” Steve replies distantly. He hangs his head and picks at a callous on his finger. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.”

“So when you say desperate times…I uh, I take it you’re talking the fact that you haven’t been sleeping?”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Seen that look you’re wearing plenty of times…in the mirror.”

Steve nods. “What’d you do?”

“This…this is a good start. I mean, it was for me.” Bucky gestures vaguely to the room. Steve nods and more people begin to flow into the room, taking seats in the oblong circle. “If you want to talk—afterwards, I mean—just, uh, I’ll be around? I can’t offer much advice but I mean…I could listen.” Steve looks up at Bucky, lips ajar with surprise. It doesn’t take him long to recover though and Bucky doesn’t miss the way he glances down at Maya before looking back to his hands.

“Nah, that’s ok. I can manage.” He says. Bucky wants to say more, but its nearly 12 and he’s a firm believer in timeliness, so he ambles over to a seat near the front of the room, Maya close on his heels.

“Hey everyone. So uh, a lot of you know me but for those of you who don’t, you can call me Bucky. Sam asked me to facilitate today so uh, here I am. Oh and this is my lovely assistant Maya—”

“I’m Maya! Hewo!” Maya interjects. Most people laugh, a couple look unamused, and a few maintain the scowls they walked in with. Bucky chuckles and shakes his head.

“Yea, so…highs and lows, anyone want to start?”

*

An hour later Bucky is helping Maya put her coloring book and crayons back into her book bag and a murmur of chatter settles in the air while people linger around the room making casual conversation or sharing further as usual.

All in all, things went well. Maya was contented to color for most of the meeting until her two-year-old attention span got bored of it and she climbed up into Bucky’s lap where she also seemed fairly content.

 

That was until a woman—a regular at the VA, recently retired from the AirForce—had begun to tear up as she spoke near the end of the meeting.

“She’s cwying,” The little girl had said, looking at Bucky with furrowed brows. Bucky nodded somberly, not sure how to reply.

Maya apparently had her own ideas, however. In the next moment she jumped down from Bucky’s lap and ran over to the woman, hugging her knees. “Iss otay. Don cwy.”

“Maya!” Bucky admonished with a look of horror, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He hopped from his chair, running over to pry his little girl away. “I’m so sorry.”

Nevertheless, the tan brunette was actually laughing through her tears. “Its okay. I…I needed that.”

The fact that the woman wasn’t put off eased Bucky’s nerves a little, but back in his seat he’d still held her firmly in his lap for the rest of the meeting.

 

While Maya is struggling with the zipper to her backpack—which she insisted zipping herself despite Bucky’s efforts to help—Bucky scans the room for Steve. His eyes had wandered over to the blond periodically throughout the meeting, trying to gauge his reactions. For the most part he’d maintained the same tired look he’d worn at the beginning, but Bucky did see him crack a smile at the mini-scene Maya made.

Even though Steve said he didn’t want to talk, Bucky still wants to pop by and ask him if he feels any better. However, the man is nowhere to be found. Before he can think too hard about it, his phone pings.

 

 **13:03** Sam Wilson: So??

 **13:05** James Barnes: So what?

 **13:05** Sam Wilson: Did you fuck anything up?

 

Bucky laughs.

 

 **13:06** James Barnes: So all that about trusting me was just chicken shit?

 **13:07** Sam Wilson: LOL just fuckin w/ you bro.

Sam Wilson: How did it go, though?

 **13:08** James Barnes: Fine, I think.

James Barnes: Oh, but there was this one guy, Steve. He seemed in a bad way.

James Barnes: Not sleeping. I asked beforehand if he maybe wanted to talk later, he said no.

James Barnes: Didn’t participate. Left right after.

 **13:09** Sam Wilson: huh, sounds familiar…

 

“Denny you do ih.” Maya says, pulling on his pants leg with one hand and giving him the backpack with the other. Her face is the epitome of scandalized at the backpack’s lack of cooperation and Bucky laughs, zipping it easily and helping her slide it onto her back.

“Ready?”

“Un-huh!” She grabs his hand and he heads towards the door, phone still in hand.

 

 **13:12** James Barnes: fuck you

James Barnes: otw home. Call you when I get there.

 

Maya falls asleep on the car ride back to Bucky’s brownstone and he thanks whatever Gods may be that he won’t have to fight to get her down for a nap today, suspecting she’s tired from a day around so many people. After tucking Maya in upstairs, Bucky heads back down to the kitchen to raid the fridge and dial Sam.

 

“Barnes.”

“Sounds familiar? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t give me that, when you first started coming to the VA you were like some sort of mute zombie.”

“Zombies don’t talk anyway. What you got nothing but air in that jarhead of yours?”

“Oo-rah! And also fuck you. You know what I meant Barnes. That was you six months ago. It was all of us, most of us, when we got back.”

“Ok fine, you’re right. But at least you were around to help me get back into civvy life. Not the _ideal_ set up, but, you know, better than no one.”

“It’s a shame, the way you treat me.” Sam sighs. Bucky laughs.

“I _mean_ th’only reason that’s not you now is cause of your family, and only reason it’s not me is cause’a you-”

“Aw.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, ignoring Sam’s interruption. “It just doesn’t seem like the guy’s talking to anyone, or has anyone around...”

“Look…” Sam sighs. “From what I know his mom died a couple months before he enlisted, don’t think his dad is around either.”

“Friends?”

“I don’t guess so. When you’re a Captain in Force Recon, I don’t imagine you have much time for making buddies.”

Buck nods though he knows Sam can’t see him, having momentarily forgotten Steve’s sort-of-pretty-elite military history.

“Captain or not, this doesn’t worry you?” He finally says.

“Of course it does, you know me. I want every vet that walks through those doors to become a well-adjusted functioning member of society. But what am I gonna do? I can’t force him to come in and talk to someone if he isn’t ready yet. Hell, he outranks me in every way possible-- I can’t tell him to get get up off his sorry ass and do something with his life before he rots away--”

“That didn’t stop you when it was me.” They both chuckle.

“Yea well I don’t know him like I know you brother, only talked to him a couple of times when he’s come in to do paperwork. He more regularly deals with Sharon. I’ve been telling him to go to group, so far as I know today was his first time there. That’s improvement.”

Bucky nods again. “Yea…”

“I’m glad my counselors spirit is running off on you, but don’t stress yourself about it. Steve…I don’t know, he seems like a solid dude. He was an officer, and you don’t make it that far without being able to hold your own.”

“Yea…”

“If you see him, keep him coming to the open sessions and he’ll work it out at his own pace.”

Bucky sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. Sam is right, he can't fix Steve. He hates to admit the sheer truth in that fact doesn't make the urge to help the man go away. 

“Whatever you say, man. You’re the expert.” He huffs.

“You said it not me. Where’s the rugrat?”

"She’s asleep. Oh Christ, guess what she did in the meeting today…”


	8. Chapter 8

**22 DECEMBER 2014**  

Bucky hates New York. No, actually he just hates shopping in New York. Well, technically he mostly hates shopping in New York during the holidays.

“Why?” He murmurs in a low voice. “Why did I to this to myself?”

 

He’d been sitting around the house watching some kids movie with Maya when it occurred to him that Christmas was literally in three days. He still isn’t sure how he managed to forget—everything in the city was lit up, there was garland and red bows everywhere, Jingle Bell Rock and Baby Its Cold Outside could be heard blaring on the streets every time he left his house—there were reminders everywhere, how could he have forgotten? He doesn’t know, but he reckons its been so long since he’d celebrated—he was still in the hospital last Christmas and deployed the 4 Christmases before that—that he’d just forgotten to keep up with the days. Either way, he hadn’t gotten Maya anything and when he realized, he panicked. It was something he’d been doing a lot recently, panicking. Whenever Maya fell down or hurt herself, whenever he kept her up or out past her bedtime, whenever he lost his patience or fed her McDonalds more than once a week he got all flustered and overcompensated in some way.

Thus, now they were standing side by side in the middle of an overcrowded store in Downtown Brooklyn, Maya holding Bucky’s hand in a death grip and Bucky slowly realizing he doesn’t think he can do this. Since the war crowds had been one of his major triggers. After all, he was a sniper; he worked from afar where he could see everything, survey the situation, keep eyes on any potential targets. In the ambush he hadn’t had time to find a vantage point, he’d been thrown into a battle where there were enemies on all sides and it had ended badly. His muscles tense involuntarily as he thinks about it.  

“Focus.” He whispers to himself. His eyes dart across the store in search of the exit signs, but he can’t seem to locate them. To make matters worse his only option is to keep moving or be tussled by the crowd.

“Denny! Denny peas!” Maya exclaims. She reaches her arms up for him and her face is contorted in a mixture of fear and discomfort. He stops long enough to pick her up and does a quick sweep of the store. By some Christmas miracle he locates the exit sign and heads towards it dutifully, clutching Maya to his chest both for her good and his own.

 _Hold it together, Barnes_ He tells himself _If not for you, for her. C’mon, keep it together._

The cold air hits him like a whip as soon as he makes it through the doors and out onto the streets. He stills for a moment, leaning against the wall and allowing the cold to bring him back to his awareness, drinking in the openness and lack of threat, letting his lids fall together and taking a deep breath.

_Breathe. Just Breathe._

“Denny? Denny seeping?” Bucky chuckles and opens his eyes to look at Maya’s inquisitive face.

“No sweetheart, I’m not sleeping. I just need a minute, okay?”

“Otay.” She lays her head on his shoulder and rubs his back the way he does for her when she’s upset. He shakes his head at her perceptiveness and smiles before letting his eyes drift close once more to focus on his breath.

As he carries Maya back towards the parking garage, he notices a man standing apprehensively by the stairs down to the subway. The man wrings his hands, looks down towards the stairs and takes a step forward before wringing his hands again and taking a step back. He runs his hands through his hair and places one on his forehead before repeating the step-forward step-back process. The behavior is odd and suspicious and Bucky finds himself tensing once again as he prepares to walk past the man…until he recognizes the face.

“Steve?” He questions, close enough to be heard but still a comfortable distance back. The man whirls around, eyes wide as though he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Hi!” Maya quips.

“Oh-uh, he-hey Bucky, h-hi Maya.” He mutters. 

“Oo-rah, Maween!” Bucky shakes his head.

“You ok, man?”

“Huh? Oh, uh yea I just…” He glances at the subway stairs and his expression hardens as though the public transportation has somehow offended him.

“Not a fan of the subway?”

“I just…I wasn’t expecting so many people to be out, I guess. I uh…I just I-I—”

“Hey, Steve.” Bucky interjects firm but kind and non-threateningly. “Why don’t you take a few breaths, yea?”

“Hu-huh, what?”

“You should breathe, Steve. I think you're havin'a anxiety attack.”

“I-I—” Steve’s chest heaves as he begins to hyperventilate.

Bucky takes a slow step closer. “Steve, its really important that you hear me—I’m gonna grab your arm, ok? It’s just me, you’re not in any danger.”

“Y-yea, n-no danger.” Bucky holds Maya—who looks on curiously but perceptively stays queit—with his prosthesis and grabs Steve’s shoulder firmly with his regular hand. The man flinches, but he doesn’t lash out.

“Listen to me, Steve. You need to breathe, ok? Watch me.” Steve’s eyes, pupils dilated with fear but irises still clear and blue, dart to Bucky’s and though Steve says nothing Bucky can’t hear the silent ‘ _please_.’ “Deep breath in…right, just like that. Now out. Its ok, you’re not in any danger around here…breathe in, now out. Good. Good job. There are a lot of people but they’re just out doing their Christmas shopping…breathe in, slower, right. Good. Slowly... Concentrate on breathing, concentrate on me.” They stand that way for a few moments, out of the way of the crowd, eyes trained on one another and Bucky’s hand firmly on Steve’s shoulder.

“Sorry…” Steve mumbles when he’s finally breathing steady again. Bucky doesn’t miss the way his hands still tremble as he continuously wrings them around each other, or the fear still lingering in his eyes.

“Don’t be, I understand. I’ve been there.”

Steve nods. “Its just…the subway. I just, I completely forgot about the holidays and the crowds…”

“Same here, just barely made it out of Macy’s without losing it.” Bucky confesses. Steve looks up at him stricken with guilt.

“Oh! I’m sorry, you should, I should let you get home, you probably, I-I didn’t mean to—”

“Steve. Steve! It’s fine. I’m fine now. Are you ok?”

“Yea. Yea, I’m just gonna…” He looks down towards the subway and frowns.

“I could give you a ride? I drive everywhere because…well,” Bucky shrugs.

“No no, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you or anything I’ll just…”

“Its no problem really. C’mon, this way.”

It doesn’t take them long to find Bucky’s black Mazda in the parking garage, and he straps Maya easily into car seat while Steve climbs into the front.

“So where to?” He asks once he’s seated behind the wheel, clicking his seatbelt into the place and turning the key in the ignition. Steve is about to answer when Big Bird’s voice comes blasting through the speakers, joyfully singing Old MacDonald.

“Ol Mac-Nonald!” Maya protests when he turns it down.

“Maya—”

“I wan Ol Mac-Nonald, Denny!”

“South slope, 10th street.” Steve says with a little smile.

“Denny peas!” 

“Ok ok, hold your horses!” Maya starts singing along as soon as she can hear the music again, and when Bucky pulls out of the garage he’s surprised to see that though his hands are still trembling, Steve seems a lot more relaxed.

Aside from the plethora of kid’s songs—from nursery rhymes to Frozen—and Maya’s little singing voice, the ride is mostly silent. Bucky is content with the fact that Steve has accepted his help, and doesn’t want to push it. Steve is just glad he didn’t have to brave the subway again, if a little embarrassed that he had so much trouble with it in the first place.  Neither has said as much, but both are also worn out from their close encounters with panic. However, ten minutes after they’ve pulled off Maya goes quiet. Bucky glances in the rearview mirror and sees that she’s sleeping, but he’s surprised when Steve lifts his head from where he’s let it drop against the doorframe and turns to check on her.

“Being two is a hard job.” He jokes, turning the radio down low. “She runs out of fuel everyday around this time.”

“That’s good.” Steve replies. “Its hard to get kids to nap, I mean. I don’t have-I don’t _know_ but that’s…that’s what I’ve heard”

Bucky shrugs.  “Maybe I’m lucky.”

Steve glances at Bucky’s metal arm and nods. “Yea. Well, anybody who comes home after something to cause an injury like that is pretty lucky.”

Bucky could reply but he can’t think of much to say and so they continue in silence, Maya’s breathing deep and slow in the back and the kids tunes a muted hum through the back speakers.

*

“I’m right here.” Steve says, pointing to his building once Bucky turns on to 10th street. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Yea, no problem—hey, uh, Steve?”

“Yea?”

“Did you have any plans for Thursday?”

“No I…No.”

“Well, its just me and Maya I was probably just gonna order Chinese and watch the game if you…I mean if you wanted to come over.”

“Oh, oh no I’ll—I couldn’t just intrude on your Christmas that way.”

“Not at all, I’m not –I haven’t really celebrated since before I enlisted and I don’t think Maya knows one way or the other so its no big deal, really. I just—I know holidays can be hard…being home for the first time… not having anyone around. I mean I’m not saying you don’t but…”

“I—”

“C’mon Steve. Don’t make me beg you, yea?”

“You don’t have to—I mean, you don’t even know me…”

Bucky sighs. “I know you were a good Marine. And it seems like you’re a good man, going through a rough patch—”

“I can deal with it on my own, Bucky—”

“Maybe that’s true, but the thing is you don’t have to. I’ve been there, I just want to help. Semper Fi—doesn’t just mean faithful to the service Steve. Its to the men you serve with too…”

Steve shifts his weight from one side to the other, straightening from where he’d been crouched over to look at Bucky through the open passenger door. A few moments pass before Steve sighs and bends to face Bucky again. “Throwing Semper Fi at me, that’s low.” He smirks. Bucky shrugs. “Fine. What time?”

“4:30?” Bucky smiles. “You need a ride?”

“No I—I’ll take my bike.”

“Bike?”

“Harley.”

“Ohh.”

Steve scratches the back of his head and nods. “Yea. Thanks—uh, thanks again for the ride. I—I guess I’ll be seeing you Thursday, then.”

Bucky smiles. “No problem, see you then.”

It isn't until he gets home that Bucky notices the warm blossoming of excitement in his chest. He puts Maya in her bed and falls onto the couch with a sigh that inevitably turns into a wistful smile... and then realization hits and his smile melts into a frown of frustration. 

"Aw shit.." He murmurs "What the hell am I getting myself into..."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of Mini-Chapter: bro-t-p

Steve takes the stairs up to his apartment—he figures the exercise might help him shake the jitters still lingering from his run in with the subway. He isn’t sure why he went out today—he should’ve known, should’ve realized the subways would be crazy and he’d end up stuck somewhere a quivering mess. He isn’t sure he wants to admit it to himself but he’s damn glad Bucky saw him. In fact, he’s been pretty grateful for Bucky quite a bit here recently, which is strange considering the fact that he’s only had a few, very brief encounters with the man. Bracing to head up the fifth flights of steps, Steve pauses. Actually, he’s only had three encounters with Bucky—at the store, the VA, and today in downtown Brooklyn. Still, he distinctly remembers walking away each time feeling at least a little bit better than he’d been feeling before. He’s starting to think there’s something about the man, something undeniably trustworthy and loyal—but he shakes his head. He doesn’t know Bucky, most likely its the human contact, in general. Steve doesn’t really have many people around, he’ll admit. And by “doesn’t really have many” he means he’s got no one, mostly.

 

He talks to Sam sometimes. He wouldn’t consider them friends, but the guy always tries to help him out or offer him a smile when he sees him down at the VA working on his benefits papers or something.

He has Peggy. They’d fought together with the corps for nearly as long as he was with force recon. But the year before he was captured Peggy was pulled from his unit, hand picked for a position with a new homeland intervention, enforcement, and logistics division of the CIA. They’d exchanged a few letters in that year, while he was still in the field, but it was far and few between. She’d visited him during his short stint in the hospital, though; told him she’d been “terribly concerned” when she saw his name on the news--apparently she had even threatened to throw on her cammies, head out to the desert, and find him herself. She’d left, though, after a couple of days and returned to her job in DC. They still talked on the phone, just to catch up, but only once a month at most.

And then there’s Natasha. Steve and Natasha met during a mission in Uzbekistan; it wasn’t long after Peggy left—about a year before his capture. His unit was pulled off an assignment in an Iranian desert and tasked with recovering half of an Air Force’s special ops team, whose assignment went awry. Tasha was a CIA field operative, but Steve had been under the assumption that she was an innocent, and thrown himself in front of a couple of bullets to protect her. In return, when Steve was separated from his men—or rather, when he dispersed them and stayed behind (he had a habit of it, what can he say?)—she’d broken her cover to get him to a safe house. They were locked in for three days before extraction and somehow they’d manage to build semblance of friendship on that time—and on the mutual feeling of ‘you saved my life.’

Afterwards, Natasha joined his team along with two other operatives—Melinda May and Clint Barton. Given the success of the mission, there was a consensus among the higher ups that a merger would be useful for recovery and retrieve assignments—recovering people and retrieving intel. They traveled together for nearly 11 months...

...the first assignment without her was the one where he’d been captured. He realizes now that he’d probably grown somewhat dependent on Natasha having his back, and that that was his mistake. But he isn’t sure he regrets it.

Like Peggy, Tasha visited in the hospital, but unlike Peggy she hadn’t offered much comfort. Instead she’d told him he was a fool—“дурак”—who always had to be the hero and flicked his bruised face with a hint of a smile. Well maybe it wasn’t true that she hadn’t offered comfort, for Natasha that was about as comforting as it got.

Natasha was probably his closest friend, but she was one of the best spies there was and she spent most of her time overseas undercover. He’d only spoken to her twice in the nine months he’d been home.

So, yea, sure Steve’s got a couple of people. But really he doesn’t have anyone. Bucky’s the only person he’s talked to more than once within a three week period since he's been home. Well, not counting the counselor Steve’d been seeing up until October. The counselor who told him it was probably in his best interest to reach out to someone. But Steve was a loner—he always had been. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people or that he didn’t have friends, he did; but, when it came to reaching out for help he’d never been great at it. He was more likely to be the one to do the helping. And besides, being a vet with PTSD was not really a great position to be in when it came to making friends. Sure, Bucky was nice and Steve—for whatever reason—sort of liked being around him, but why should Bucky have to shoulder the weight of Steve’s…problems? He was a vet too, dealing with his own issues. He had a _kid_ for Christ’s sake.

 

Steve lets himself into his two bedroom apartment, locks and deadbolts the door, and collapses onto the couch. He can’t be friends with Bucky—he’ll end up needing, _wanting_ too much from him. He’ll just be a burden. Really, he’s a grown-ass man. He can take care of himself—he’s been doing it so far, hasn’t he?

 _‘yea but the thing is you don’t_ have _to’_ Bucky’s voice echoes in his ear. Steve groans and throws his forearm over his eyes.

“aw shit.” He murmurs. “What the hell am I getting myself into…”

“I don’t know but it better not be anything that’ll get you killed, Rogers.” Steve nearly jumps out of his skin, and he has the gun between his couch cushions in his hand and pointed towards the voice before he even registers that it’s a familiar one.

“Jesus Christ—” He exclaims, lowering the weapon and putting a hand over his heart. He feels like a skinny asthmatic all over again, heart slamming against his chest and lungs constricting. “Natasha, what-what the hell. What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“You know I have PTSD, right? You can’t just break into my apartment, I could shoot you.” He threatens.

“You even sure how to use that thing?” She teases.

“Patronizing isn’t a good look for you, it clashes with the red.”

She smirks from where she’s sitting in his armchair, one over-the-knee-boot clad leg crossed over the other, leather jacket open and fiery red hair curly and short. She doesn’t look up at him, instead focused on her phone, sleek, shiny, and black like the rest of her ensemble.

“Still snarky, I see.” She comments. Finally tossing the phone onto the coffee table and looking up.

“You could have given me a heart attack.”

Natasha doesn’t respond for a long time, and then she shrugs. “You mean a panic attack.”

“Natasha…”

“The last time we talked you said you were getting help…” She accuses, standing gracefully from the chair and moving towards the bathroom. Despite the four-inch heel on her boots, she moves near silently to the bathroom, the kitchen, and back to the living room. Steve sighs when she’s back in front of him.

“I’m handling it.”

“and by handling it, you mean you're not handling it.” She takes his hand and slaps this little white pill in it—its an anti-anxiety medication his doctor prescribed him for when his nerves were really bad. She shoves the glass of water in his other hand and crosses her arms.

“Tasha…” Her stare hardens and his sucks his teeth, popping the pill and draining the glass of water. “Happy?”

“No where near.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just got back from Budapest with Clint.” She rolls her eyes and sinks down onto the couch. “Last time I left you, you got yourself captured by terrorists so I decided to come check on you while I was stateside.”

“I can take care of myself, Nat.”

“You have the sense of self-preservation of a plant.”

“Do plants even have senses of self-preservation?”

“My point exactly.” Steve can’t help but chuckle and settles onto the couch beside her. “So what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“You had a panic attack. Why?”

“Uh, because you broke into my apartment, maybe?”

“Maybe, but you were shook up when you walked in.”

Steve sighs. “No wonder you’re a spy.” He mumbles. “I took the subway downtown this morning—”

“You _do_ know its three days before Christmas, right?”

“I forgot that detail…”

“Self-preservation of a plant…” She tsks. “How’d you get back?”

Steve thinks to ask how she knows he didn’t take the subway, but he decides against it. “Bucky gave me a ride.”

Natasha’s eyebrows shoot up and she smirks again. He hates her smirk, and loves it at the same time. “Bucky? Who’s Bucky?”

“He’s just someone I met…”

“Someone you _met?_ ”

“No-not-no, not like that! I mean he works at the Brooklyn VA—”

“You met your boyfriend at the VA?”

“He’s not my boyfriend, and I met him when he lost his kid in the store—”

“Your boyfriend has a _kid?!”_

“ _Again_ he’s **not** my boyfriend. I don’t even know him, I’ve ran into him a few times. At the store and the VA, and today he saw me panicking and said he’d give me a ride. He’s a vet.”   

“But you like him?”

“I don’t know him.”

“ _But you like him_?”

“Jesus Christ…” Steve sighs in exasperation. Thankfully the medicine is starting to kick in and he can feel his nerves and muscles beginning to relax, but he swears Natasha and her super-spy perception skills make his blood pressure go up 30 points. “He’s a nice guy. The only person I’ve talked to more than once all month even though we haven’t really exchanged more than a few sentences each time. I think its just nice, the human interaction…”

“So. You like him.” Steve uses all his bodily strength to resist the urge to face palm and just shakes his head instead.

“I can’t like anyone Natasha, I’m too—I’ve just got problems I need to work out—”

“That would be a lot easier if you hadn’t bailed on Dr. Banner—”

“I don’t need a shrink. I just need…I just need some time. To readjust to the city, being a civilian again. I’ll be fine.”

“You were tortured by terrorists Steve, and before that you were at war for ten years.”

“I know, Natasha, and I’m dealing with it, alright.” Natasha sucks her teeth and leans back against the couch.

“If you say so. But at least tell me you’ll try to befriend this guy—”

“Tas—”

“— _even_ _if_ its not like ‘that.’ If you aren’t going to get help you at least need a friend. You can’t keep going days without real human interaction.”

“Can’t say I’m not used to it.”

“That doesn’t make it okay, дурак” Steve sighs for the millionth time. The thought of bailing on Bucky had crossed his mind, before Natasha scared him shitless. But she was right, he supposed. They sit in silence for a few long moments before Steve speaks.

“Fine.” He mumbles. He notices when Natasha nods in satisfaction.

A few more moments pass before he speaks up again. “How long are you back?”

“Off to Czech tomorrow morning.”

Steve nods. “…There’s a ‘30s movie marathon on TCM.”

Natasha smirks. “I swear you’re _actually_ an old man.”

Steve rolls his eyes as Natasha grabs the remote and flips on the television.

Forty minutes later and he’s enthralled in the magical Land of Oz with Judy Garland. He doesn’t look at Natasha, but he knows—for now—that she’s there, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo this was supposed to be a mini-chapter but then i just had so many Steve/Natasha BrOTP feels so...yea.


	10. Chapter 10

**25 DECEMBER 2014 [PT. I]**

Maya is sitting on a blanket in the middle of Bucky’s hardwood living room floor playing with her blocks when Bucky hears the doorbell.

“Hey, whass that?” Maya says looking up at where Bucky’s rising from the couch. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or groan at the fact that having company is such a rarity his kid doesn’t know the sound of the doorbell.

“It’s the door bell. I think Steve’s here. You remember Steve?”

“Oo-wah maween!” Bucky laughs and Maya hops up to accompany him to the door.

“Right, Steve is a marine.”

“Denny iss a maween.”

“Yep, daddy is a marine, too.”

“Denny _an_ Steeb iss a maween!”

“Daddy and Steve _are_ marines.” He corrects her with a smile and ruffles her hair, much to her amusement. She’s giggling wildly when they finally reach the door.

“Hey Steve.” He greets once he swings the door open.

“Hey Steeb!” Maya echoes. Steve nods at Bucky and smiles down at Maya.

“Hey little bit.” He greets, shaking her little hand.

“Denny _an_ Steeb are a maween! _”_ She tells Steve excitedly. He laughs and Bucky chuckles at her attempt to echo the way he corrected her earlier.

“Daddy and Steve are _marines.”_ He tries again. She nods as if to say ‘yes, that’s what I said.’

“Oo-wah!”

“Looks like you’re raising a little devil dog.” Steve laughs.

Bucky shakes his head and opens the door wider. “Completely unintentionally. Come in.”

Once through the doors Steve takes a moment to take in the surroundings and Bucky takes a moment to take in _Steve._ His skin is pale and his eyes—still ridiculously blue and…beautiful, Bucky’s almost ashamed to think—seem content today as opposed to tortured, panicked, or quietly sad. His hair is all tousled, presumably from his bike helmet, and his cheeks are a bit rosy from windburn. He’s wearing a white t-shirt under a grey zip hoodie, under a leather jacket and dark blue jeans and again Bucky’s ashamed when he catches himself thinking about how good Steve looks in the ensemble. He’s supposed to be _helping_ the guy out, not _checking_ him out.

Still, his closer-than-strictly-necessary observation isn’t completely for naught; he notices that even though Steve seems relaxed and is still wearing the easy smile drawn out by Maya being her typical adorable self, his posture is still alert and he orients his back towards the corner such that he has a clear view of most of the room. His eyes, though calm, are searching. They dart casually over the walls and tables, glance down the hallway and up the stairs. Bucky is willing to bet after just standing here a few seconds Steve could redraw the little foyer perfectly from memory. 

“This is a nice place. Restored?” Steve says, nodding

“Yea. Completely in 2012, I think—electrical, plumbing, appliances, and all that stuff. But aesthetically the previous owners kept a lot of the old charm.”

“Yea, I can tell. The crown molding and the hardwood floors are gorgeous.”

“Thanks, you big into houses?”

Steve shrugs “I wouldn’t say into them, but my dad was a real estate agent, used to take me along a lot. I guess I inherited his appreciation for a nice classic brownstone.”

“Was?”

“Oh yea…” Steve scratches the back of his neck and nods. “He died. When I was 13.”

“Oh…Sorry.”

Steve chuckles humorlessly and shrugs, holding up his jackets. “What should I do with these?”

“Oh, uh you can hang ‘em in that closet, or throw ‘em across the chair or something.”

Steve nods, moving towards the closet. The awkward quiet that follows eats at Bucky. Maybe he didn’t think things all the way through, inviting Steve to his house. Of course, he wants to help the man—a fellow Marine—but there are so many ways it could go wrong. For one, he never hosts company. The only person that’s even been inside his brownstone is Sam, and after the past six months that man is basically family. For two, Steve really is ridiculously attractive. Of course Bucky had noticed that first time in the grocery store, but at the meeting and downtown he’d been too concerned about Steve’s mental well-being to really focus on how good-looking the man was. But now, casually dressed and smelling of soap and freshly laundered clothes, wearing an easy smile and with a mostly relaxed demeanor, Bucky is suddenly stricken by his all at once boy-next-door-and-badass-Marine-Corps-Captain demeanor and he knows he’s in over his head.

The silence lingers, that is until Bucky’s thoughts are interrupted by the realization that he has a two year old and it shouldn’t be quiet at all. He looks down and sees she’s snuck away. He’s a trained combat Marine, top tier sniper, and former weapons company leader—he doesn’t understand how she manages to get away from him without him noticing.

“I think she got bored with the conversation about the house. She went that way.” Steve points towards the hallway with a little smile when he notices Bucky looking around.

“Thanks, I’m gonna check on her. Can’t leave a two year old alone for too long, they break things.” Bucky jokes. Steve laughs.

“I take it you know from experience?”

“Yea, lets just say I learned the hard way. The living room is this way, though, when you’re done?”

“Ok. Yea.”

-

Maya is laughing wildly while Bucky tickles her on the floor when Steve walks into the living room.

“Wow, this place really is nice.” He comments again, taking in the wall-to-wall hardwood. Bucky looks up, and in the three seconds his attention is turned away Maya pounces on him.

“I got you!” She declares. Bucky grins at his armful of toddler and nods.

“Yea you got me. Go get your chair, you can watch Dora.” Maya scrambles off and returns quickly with a green made-for-kids bean bag chair, which she promptly flops down onto as Bucky sets up her show. The intro song hasn’t been playing 30 seconds before she’s entranced. Bucky nods towards the kitchen, indicating Steve should follow.

 

“Thanks, most places over in South Slope are pretty nice too, though, right?” Bucky says, finally addressing Steve’s comment as he takes a seat at the island.

“Yea, sure. It’s a nice area.” Steve says, sitting across from him. “My apartment’s nothing special, though. Took the first place I could find that was relatively quiet. New York isn’t exactly the easiest city to find a place.”

Bucky chuckles. “That’s an understatement, apartment hunting here is hell. I lucked out with this place, probably the only benefit of being in a rehab facility for so long, wasn’t too pressed about housing.”

“So you did your rehab here in New York?”

“Yep. Mostly in a facility in Manhattan.”

“Are you from here originally?”

“Nah, I’m from Indiana.” Bucky knocks on his prosthetic. “But seeing as the corps set me up with this custom-made Stark tech, it made more sense to do the rehab close to Stark Industries. New York seemed like a good place to settle in and a lot of my recovery team recommended Brooklyn.”

“No family to go back to?”

Bucky shrugs. “Only child, and my parents passed a while back. So I figured now was as good a time as any to uproot, you know?”

Steve nods. “Yea. Yea that makes sense.”

“What about you, what brought you around here?”

“Brooklyn born and bred.” Steve says with a heavy drawl—Bucky has to bite his tongue lest he proclaim the sheer attractiveness of Steve’s Brooklyn twang. “My mom passed away before I enlisted, and like I said my dad died when I was a kid so…and yea, only child, too. I was sorta dropped back into civilian life a little unexpectedly, and after years in the desert I just wanted something familiar. Opposite of you, I guess, but I love Brooklyn, its home. Couldn’t stay away for too long.”

“Yea. I like it, different than Indiana. Definitely different than the desert.”

Steve chuckles. “Not as different as you would think.” He muses. Bucky thinks to ask but decides against it.

“Oh hey, I didn’t even ask if you wanted a beer or something—” He asks by way of rerouting. Steve nods and Bucky grabs two from the fridge. The beer hisses when Bucky pops the top off with the bottle opener and its cold and sweating when he slides it across the counter to Steve.

“Dos Equis. Classy.” Steve remarks with a smirk.

“Shut it, punk.” Bucky shoots back. It draws a laugh from Steve, small but melodious and rich. Bucky finds himself relieved that despite the fairly heavy conversation, Steve remains mostly relaxed.

“Wait, didn’t you say something about two-year olds and breaking things when left alone?”

Bucky chuckles around his mouthful of beer, “Yea, but there’s a Dora clause.” He moves towards the kitchen entrance, leaning onto the wall and nodding to where Maya’s sitting. Steve scoots off his stool, taking a long pull from his drink. He can’t help smiling at what he sees when he gets to Bucky’s side. Maya is snuggled in her beanbag chair, mouth hanging half agape and eyes barely open while Dora and her friends sing about their path through the fountain garden.

“Its like magic.” Steve comments with a laugh.

“Right?”

“So is Dora always a precursor to naptime?”

“Ah not exactly.” Bucky admits. “Kept her up through her nap today. Figured if we were actually going to watch the game naptime would have to be delayed a couple of hours.”

“Smart man. I was wondering how exactly that was gonna go down.”

“Guess its true what they say about officers just being figureheads, ‘cause I’m a coupla’ steps ahead of you, Captain.” Bucky drains the last of his beer and goes to the fridge for another.

“I’ll give you that, but I’ve never known a weapons company to the be brains of an operation, _sergeant.”_ Steve retorts. Bucky laughs.

“What you trying to say I’m all brawn or something, I’m insulted.”

Steve balks. “You basically just called me a dancing monkey, jerk. If you cant take it don’t dish it.”  He rumbles around in the drawer beside his stove for a delivery menu and tosses it to Steve.

“I’m gonna put her down.” He says, “Order whatever you want, its on me.”

“Oh, uh I cou—”

“…and tell ‘em you’re ordering for Bucky, they know my usual—uh, I should probably be embarrassed by that, right?”

If Steve wants to continue to push past Bucky’s obvious disregard for what would have been an offer to pay, he doesn’t say so. Instead he chuckles. “The Indian place I get carryout from knows my number from the caller ID. Think I’ve got you beat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my gahh you guys. Im super sorry it took a bajilion years for this measly update, bury ou see what happened was my computer charger broke and i know literally NO ONE at home with a mac! Thus, I couldn't access any of my work until literally two hours ago. 
> 
> but anyway, Part II of this coming sometime over the weekend probably so stay tuned.


	11. Chapter 11

**25 DECEMBER 2014 (PT II)**

 

“The twenty! The ten!” Bucky exclaims. He bounces up from the couch, holding both arms over his head in an imitation of the touchdown signal. Steve slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh when Bucky breaks into a moon walk victory dance. “The five…Touchdown! Hell yes! Hell yes!”

The game has just gone to halftime with the NY Jets up over the Pittsburg Steelers and Steve’s side hurts because he’s spent the entirety of the first half doing exactly what he’s doing now--laughing at Bucky. The man is a riot. Steve has learned it’s not necessarily that Bucky is a devoted Jets fan but rather that he vehemently opposes the Steelers. His seething disgust for the team alone was enough to make Steve smirk. Aside from that, five minutes into the game he’d started mumbling insults at the team’s players under his breath. Steve had chuckled both at Bucky’s petulance and at the fact that it didn’t seem Bucky was aware that he’d been muttering out loud until Steve mentioned it. From there Steve found himself seriously amused by Bucky’s sly tongue and genuine excitement at the goings on with the game. He argued with the refs and celebrated with the players in a genuine and animated fashion. Steve found it both hilarious and endearing.

Not to mention how good it felt to laugh. It’d been strange at first, to allow his eyes to crinkle with more than just an amused smile, or his breath to huff with more than a humored chuckle. But once he’d started—once that first burst of unadulterated joy bubbled up and out in the form of his deep rumbling laugh—it was like breaking a dam. He hadn’t been able to stop, or rather, he hadn’t wanted to. Bucky’s ministrations had provided him the perfect excuse to continue.

Now he feels light, lighter than he’s felt in months. His mind returns to the notion that its _something_ about this man. Something trustworthy and loyal. Something that makes it feel ok to laugh until his sides are in stitches. Something that makes him feel better, that in this case makes him feel _good._

He shakes his head, shaking the thoughts away. All these “something’s” don’t make any sense. Bucky is a strikingly handsome, ridiculously funny, and unnaturally kind former Marine who’s opened his doors to Steve and offered him friendship while Steve is a lonely, probably-depressed, veteran starved for human interaction. There’s no “something’s,” just the fact that, given the circumstances, Steve is inevitably attracted to Bucky and would be to any man or woman who took two seconds to notice him and extend a helping hand. A classic case of “hero worship.” Bucky’s actions over the past weeks hardly seem heroic, but Steve relents that given how limited his interaction with the outside world has been since he returned stateside someone taking as much interest in him as Bucky has—enough to offer even small olive branch—is a pretty big deal. So that’s all this is. Hero worship. Plain and simple…

 _Something_ tells him that’s not exactly true. _Something_ tells him that were it any other virtual stranger Steve wouldn’t have so easily let himself surrender to contentment as he has over the past hour. _Something_ raps on the back of Steve’s mind and tells him not to brush this all off. He ignores it.

Bucky flops back onto the couch with a huff and chuckles. “That was one hell of a ride, we almost lost it there at the end.”

“You _do_ know that there’s still the second half, right?”

Bucky cuts his eyes at Steve and Steve bites his lip in what he hopes seems like a mock apology and not an effort to stifle an impressed gasp at the attractiveness of Bucky’s “threatening” face.

“ _Yes,_ I know there’s the second half. But statistics say chances of winning are far better for the team up at half time.”

“Oh well excuse me, I wouldn’t want to argue with your statistics.”

“You’re such a punk.”

“A punk? Really?” Steve laughs. “I had better insults than that when I was 12, honestly.”

“Yea well what was 12 year old captain force recon doing insulting people anyway? Can’t really picture you as the bully type.”

“No, I definitely wasn’t a bully.” Steve sombers. “More like their prey.”

“ _You_? That’s seems a bit unlikely.”

“Why would you think that?”

“No way you weren’t captain of at least one sports team. You _look_ like a high school all American. I mean, the blonde hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders and infinite wingspan? Not normally the bullies’ first pick.”

Steve’s chuckle is dry. “Yea, well believe it or not 15 years ago I wasn’t ‘captain force recon’ just skinny, sickly Steve Rogers.”

“Really now?” Steve glances at Bucky and finds that he looks interested as opposed to amused. He’s a bit surprised—his men had always gotten their fair share of laughs out of the notion that their captain used to weigh all of 90 pounds soaking wet and be reduced to bedrest by the common cold. Their amusement had never bothered him, not technically. But some part of him, _something_ in him had always wanted to see the look Bucky’s wearing now. One genuinely interested for the sake of knowing something about Steve, not for the sake of a funny story that made the captain seem more like ‘one of the boys.’ He supposes its for that reason—that ‘something’—that he goes on talking.

“Yea, I was the shortest, skinniest kid in my class straight through 12th grade. Graduated weighing a buck ten even. I had the worst asthma, spent most of the fourth grade in the hospital, was allergic to pretty much everything, and got the flu mid-January every single year like clockwork.”

“Shit, that sounds rough.”

Steve means to bite his tongue but the words keep rolling. “I cant lie and say it wasn’t, and not just being sick. I mean sure it sucked being stuck in bed or in the hospital instead of out playing stickball or whatever. But it was a real struggle on my ma, especially after my dad died. She was a nurse, wasn’t really making enough to take care of a kid as sick as I was. We made it work though. I guess that’s part of the reason I wanted to do the military so bad, the guarantee of a steady income. After all that time she struggled I just wanted to help her. When the recruiter from the corps came to my high school I went to see him and he laughed. Still, I went by that table every day until he finally let me come out and PT with the other poolees.”

“How the hell’d you make it through boot?”

“Summer after senior year I hit a growth spurt. Just like that. Gained 30 pounds and grew 6 whole inches and didn’t stop. The recruiter was shocked. The extra weight helped my immune system get stronger, stopped getting so sick all the time. I grew out of the asthma and allergies…Still…since I’ve been back it seems like my lungs get tight sometimes, like they used to when I’d have an asthma attack. I have trouble breathing and stuff like that. Doc thinks its psychosomatic though, it hadn’t happened in years until now.” Steve bites his lip after that last bit. He really hadn’t meant to let that slip. Bucky doesn’t mention it though, just nods thoughtfully.

“Wait, even if you were the kid getting bullied, that still doesn’t explain the insults.”

“Oh yea…” Steve smirks. “I was a shrimp but I was still a smartass. Got pushed around my fair share for standing up for myself…and half the neighborhood.”

Bucky smiles at that, its amused but also warm. “…and by pushed around you mean beat up?”

Steve laughs. “Hey, what can I say? If you’re going down, its better to go down fighting, right?”

Bucky shakes his head. For the past hour he’d been laughing and jesting with Steve like they were old friends. He thought it was just him that felt it was easy, like it was almost natural to just fall into a rhythm where he talked and laughed like he’d known this man for ten years. But now with Steve here on his couch telling him about how he used to be small and sick, about how he used to worry about his mother and how he’s been having psychosomatic asthma attacks, Bucky knows its not just him. Steve undoubtedly feels the same familiarity, the same ease of communication, the same sense of trust and friendship. It almost makes Bucky smile, thought he bites it back lest Steve asks him what he’s so happy about. When Steve had first arrived he’d been unsure if he’d made the right decision, reaching out to the man, inviting him to his house. But the potentially unrequited attraction aside, he knows now he’d made the right choice. He and Steve could be—would be—friends. Bucky could feel it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mini chapter: steve's realization

**(SUNDAY) 28 DECEMBER 2014**

Steve pockets the keys to his bike and hops the steps to Bucky’s brownstone.

After a few more hours a laughing, talking, eating, and watching the game with Buck--and playing with Maya once she woke from her nap--Steve had insisted it was time for him to get home. They’d parted ways but only after exchanging numbers, according to Bucky because “you’re somethin’ Rogers, get in touch if you ever need a ride or…” _a friend,_ though unspoken the words hung like mist in the air, inescapable.

Back at home Steve felt all at once aware of just how out of touch he’s been since he’s been home. He’d been going through on autopilot, making polite conversation in public and keeping on his best ‘im alright’ face.The past few days—first Nat’s visit and then an afternoon with Bucky and his daughter—it was like taking as sip from a freshwater stream after months of drinking acrid tap water.

It was hard at first to tell exactly what was different, but as he’d plopped onto his couch and flipped on the TV, he knew there _had_ been a difference. He knew that while he’d been telling himself and everyone else who bothered to ask that he was fine, he wasn’t. For nine months he’d been stateside, and even if he’d admitted to having nightmares and not sleeping, to being lonely and isolated, to generally being in some sort of ‘funk,’ he’d been _fine._ He’d trudged on, moving along, being ‘ok’ because that’s what he did.

And then Nat came along with the feelings of security she’d always offered and for the first time in a long time he’d been able to relax even if just for a while, and know that someone had his back. And then he’d taken himself over to Bucky’s and drank beer on the man’s couch and laughed at his ridiculousness like he was light and almost-happy and not burdened with the weight of war and waning. He’d talked to Bucky like the man was his friend and it had felt so easy, so natural, so good, so _right_ to share even the small, seemingly insignificant parts of himself. He’d listened as Maya proudly told him the story of the three little pigs ‘all by herself’ and he’d felt a sensation like sunshine beaming down on a part of his soul that’d been buried under the desert sand he carried around with him.

After the taste of a reality so much sweeter than the bitter one he’d been living, it was obvious he was a bit worse than he’d let himself believe.

A bit, in this case, being a lot.

In his apartment he’d paced through the living room, the halls, his bedroom, the bathroom. He’d taken a shower and heated up leftovers from the day before, only to pick over them before eventually tossing them in the trash. He’d picked up his pencil and tried to sketch but ended up with a page full of dots where he’d placed the utencil on the page and then moved it away in uncertainty. He’d sat on the couch and flipped through the channels. All 200 of them. Twice.

The feeling wouldn’t go away.

He hadn’t slept that night, but instead of waking up every couple of hours to check and recheck his windows and doors he’d sat up sipping whiskey neat from a glass at his kitchen table. He’d wondered how he let himself get so far gone.

The next day he woke with, thankfully, no hangover and spent 3 hours in the gym trying to clear his head. But no matter how much he ran, jumped rope, lifted weights, and pounded the punching bag he still couldn’t escape his tirade of emotions. Anger at his circumstances; at the fact that his mother being poor and his childhood self being so sick drove him to the Marine Corps, anger at the fact that the Marine Corps sent him to war, anger at the fact that the war took him as its prisoner. Frustration with himself; at having let his trauma overwhelm him, at having so thoroughly—and so easily—isolated himself, at having given up and allowed himself to get so far gone. Overwhelming sadness at his reality; that he had panic attacks on a regular basis, that he woke up some nights and didn’t know who he was, that he _had_ _been_ traumatized and he couldn’t take it away. Worst of all was the loneliness, because truly, he was alone.

When he had no more fight left in him, he’d left the gym. On the way back to his apartment he’d stopped by the liquor store and back at his apartment he’d set up camp in front of the couch, this time drinking the whiskey straight from the bottle.

On Saturday, he _did_ have a hangover and he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bad.

And then at a little past 11 this morning his phone had rang. He was still in bed and had had half a mind not to answer it. Alas, he was due for a call from Peggy and if anyone could offer him advice it was her.

“Rogers,” Steve’d yawned into the receiver.

“Steve? Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Bucky? Uh--no I wasn’t asleep, just dozing.”

“Yea its Bucky. And I know that feeling, Sunday’s are pretty lazy around here too, but that’s why I was calling—its not too cold today and I was going to take Maya for a walk over in Prospect Park—I mean I wasn’t going to take her for a walk like—she’s a kid not—I mean she’s not a dog—like—but you know—I—” Bucky huffed a laugh through the phone. “Lets try this again: Me and Maya are going for a walk in Prospect Park I was wondering if you were up to anything later today or if you wanted to join us.”

“I—uhm—” Steve’d bit his lip and tried his hardest to muster up a ‘no thank you.’ Nevertheless, gnawing in the back of his brain was the combination of Natasha’s strict instruction to not deny Buck’s friendship and Steve’s own knowledge that if he kept up with this pity party he’d wake up one day an alcoholic. Thus he'd forced himself to sit up in bed and mustered a mostly cheerful “Yea, sure.”

*

And so now it was 3 pm and Steve had just pulled up to Bucky’s where he pockets the keys to his bike and hops the steps to the brownstone. He’s wearing his typical leather-bomber-jacket-and-hoodie combo and he’s surprisingly comfortable in the outside air. Bucky was right it’s pleasantly not-frigid for winter in Brooklyn.

As he raises his finger for the doorbell an off sound catches his attention. He pauses to listen. Its faint, but his trained ear can hear it, even through the door—screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0_0 :runs away:


	13. Chapter 13

Steve’s heart rate kicks up twice its normal speed and he forgoes knocking in favor of turning the knob. He has one hand in his pocket digging for the lock pick on his keychain and he’s contemplating how to get through the deadbolts he spotted on Thursday, but he finds it all unnecessary when the knob turns and the door pushes open. Past the heavy wood and inside the brownstone the screaming is louder. He assumes its Maya; her sharp cries chase Steve’s heart and it beats faster. His thoughts race along with it: the door was open, Maya is screaming…Bucky and Maya are in trouble.

Steve bounds up the stairs, following the sound of Maya’s voice. They lead him to a hallway and he follows the cries to the last door of the left. He doesn’t have a weapon but he’s confident that he can handle himself without one, thus he doesn’t hesitate before he charges into the room.

Bucky’s there. He’s knelt beside the bed and as soon as Steve steps over the threshold his eyes shoot up towards him and he leaps up prepared to fight. He recognizes Steve almost just as quick, though, and his instinct to fight simmers away, along with enough of he defenses for Steve to see the fear in his eyes.

“Bucky, where’s the threat?” Steve asks in a calm voice, the commanding fearless tenor of Captain Steve Rogers “I might be able to catch them. Did they come in through the window?”

“What? No, there’s no—” Bucky looks at Steve with a twisted expression of confusion before realization sets. He glances down at Maya and shakes his head with a humorless chortle. “You heard her screaming and you thought we were being attacked…”

It takes a moment for Steve to register that Bucky’s implying they _aren’t_ being attacked before he nods, the adrenaline is still pumping through his veins but his clenched fists fall limp at his sides. “I—yea. I heard her and then the door was open so…”

Bucky chuckles again and drags a hand over his face. Maya is sitting upright on the bed. She’s screaming at the top of her lungs and crying, her cheeks flushed red and tears streaming down her face.

“Mama! Mama!!” She shrieks reaching out in front of her. Bucky reaches for her but snatches his hand back just as quickly.

“I unlocked the door when I was downstairs. I figured you’d be over soon and I was going to run upstairs and get Maya up from her nap. But then I heard her…she was just crying at first. She’s had nightmares before…I thought…”

Bucky makes a pained expression and trails off. Before Steve really realizes it he’s approaching the bed to stand beside him. “Is she responsive?”

“I was calling her name, trying to talk to her but she wasn’t responding. When I tried to pick her up she—she fought me off and she just started crying more, and then screaming. It was like something was killing her. I thought maybe I hurt her, maybe my arm or—I didn’t want to—I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong—I’ve never—” Bucky sighs. “I’m a terrible father. I don’t know—I don’t know what’s wrong with her…”

Both men crouch beside the bed, dumbfounded while Maya continues to cry. In his peripheral Steve can see that Bucky looks near tears watching his terrified little girl and not knowing what to do. Maya writhes on the bed and cries, her voice rasping from her screams.

“Maya, C’mon My, talk to me.” Bucky tries. She doesn’t so much as blink in Bucky’s direction. Steve thinks its like she isn’t even aware they’re there. That’s when it hits him.

“Wait…did you say she was napping?” He asks.

“Yea, for about and hour and a half or so—”

“Fuck, I think I know what this is.” Steve tells him. “A night terror. I used to have them all the time when I was really young. I never remembered it but my mom used to tell me about it.”

Steve stands and Bucky stands alongside him.

“So, is she hurting or—”

“No just afraid, but its kind of like sleepwalking. She’s not, not completely aware.”

“Should I try to wake her up?”

“I don’t think my mom ever tried waking me.”

“Can I pick her up?”

“I guess. My dad would always carry me to their bed so that should be ok.”

Bucky lets out a visible breath of relief and scoops Maya quickly up from the bed. She pushes and kicks away; Steve sees why Bucky could have though she was in pain or she didn’t want to be comforted. Still, this time he snuggles her to his chest and shushes into her hair. She screams louder until Bucky begins to speak to her.

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s me, Maya. Its daddy, sweetheart. Its daddy. Maya, shh. Its ok.” He coos at her with a gentle voice. Her bemoaned crying doesn’t stop but she gives up thrashing, instead sobbing into Bucky’s chest.

“Denny! Denny! Peas Denny! I wan denny! I wan denny!” She shrieks. Bucky winces and brushes her hair from her face.

“Its ok, Maya. You’re safe. Daddy’s got you, I’m here.”

Steve watches the way Bucky cradles Maya close to him and unknowingly forges his body into a shield around her. The pain in his eyes at her suffering, the love in his voice, it all makes a rumbling of mixed emotions boil in Steve’s gut, _want_ and _attraction_ being two of the main offenders. He’d never known he was attracted to fathers. All the same he’d spent the past nine months falling into a black hole of isolation and hadn’t realized that either—he supposes this week is just one of revelations for him.

“C’mon.” Steve says softly, but still loud enough to be heard over Maya’s cries. “The terror will go away on its own, do you have any milk?”

Bucky nods, following Steve down to the kitchen. He sits at the island while Steve digs the milk out of his refrigerator and locates a pot and a jar of honey. Maya seems to respond better when Bucky holds her still than when he rocks or otherwise tries to soothe her so he forces himself not to dote. It doesn’t stop him from staring down into half open blue eyes and wishing he could do anything to comfort her.

Steve is right, however; the terror seems to subside on its on. By the time Steve has finished whatever he’s concocting on the stove Maya’s screams have become puling whimpers.

“Whats this?” Bucky asks after directing Steve to Maya’s sippy cups and watching him pour the mixture into one.

“Its milk punch.” Steve tells him. He offers the cup to Maya and she takes it, even half asleep. After the first sip, she visibly relaxes, sighing and letting her eyes fall completely closed. “Its an old Irish thing. Warm milk, honey, vanilla extract, and a splash of whiskey—”

“Whiskey?!”

“Don’t worry.” Steve laughs. “No whiskey for the two year old. My Ma would always make it without the alcohol for me when I had a nightmare. When I started getting really sick, though, my dad would sometimes talk her into adding a splash to help me sleep through the night.

Bucky laughs. “Your parents spiked your warm milk to get you to sleep?”

“Hey, it wasn’t enough to hurt, ya jerk.” Steve retorts with smile. “Sometimes parents’ll do crazy things, if it means making their kid feel better.”

“Yea. I think you’re right about that much.”

Bucky looks down at Maya with a sad smile and Steve watches for a moment before letting his eyes drop and scuffing the toe of his boot against the floor.

“You—You aren’t a terrible father, you know.” He mutters. Bucky scoffs. “No, honestly. I mean I realize I still don’t really know you from Adam but I can tell.”

“Steve, I met you when I lost my kid in the grocery store. That’s not exactly A+ parenting.”

Steve laughs. “Every parent loses their kid at least once. You can’t tell me yours didn’t. My parents _left_ me at the park once on accident.”

Bucky bites his lip in an effort to stop the smirk he feels. “Yea… I got lost once in a department store. I was exploring or something between the clothes on rack and when I came out I couldn’t find my mom anywhere, she’d walked off without me, she thought I’d followed my dad off somewhere.”

“See? Its way more common than you think.”

“Yea…Yea, I guess you’re right.”

“and I cant imagine with—having just lost her mother.” Bucky’s head snaps up and he gives Steve a look that clearly says ‘how’d you know that?’ Steve chuckles and scratches his neck. “I-uh-I remember you mentioned it at the store. It must be hard on both of you.”

Bucky laughs humorlessly. “You have no idea.”

“Im sure, I couldn’t. But…I mean you could tell me about it?” Steve isn’t sure why exactly of all the things he could’ve said _that_ is what he came up with. Hell, he’s got his own slew of problems to deal with. He shouldn’t be offering to take on anyone else’s. Still, Bucky’s a veteran and an amputee who just lost the mother of his two year old child and despite all that he insisted on helping Steve out. As though that wasn’t enough, Bucky’s insistence had saved him from a panic attack in the middle of downtown Brooklyn, a lonely, bitter Christmas, and a day of either wallowing in bed or drinking himself into a stupor. So perhaps Steve is still feeling off kilter, thrown off center by his own problems and his sudden awareness of them, but offering his ear to Bucky seems…right.

Bucky sighs. He should brush Steve off and tell him not to worry about it. Besides, _Bucky_ is supposed to be the Good Samaritan here; he shouldn’t be passing his burdens off on Steve. Nevertheless, the man _did_ offer and Bucky _does_ feel pretty shitty. This fatherhood thing has been more than difficult for him—he thought he was ready but its like each day he realizes no matter how much he loves Maya, he doesn’t know the first thing about being a parent. What’s worse is it isn’t like he’s had anyone to talk to about it, not with Sam away in DC. Besides he owes Steve something about himself since Steve shared those things about his mother and his childhood the last time they were together. He takes a deep breath.

“I got a letter in the mail last month. Up until then I had no idea that I even had a kid.”

That isn’t what Steve had been expecting. “Shit…”

Bucky laughs. “Yea, I know. Elizabeth, Maya’s mom, she was my girlfriend for a few years back in high school. We broke up on good terms before we graduated and she went off to the police academy, I went to the corps not long after. We fooled around every once and a while when I was on leave, but I had no idea she’d gotten pregnant, not until I got the letter about her death. I guess she found out a little while after I shipped back out and then everything happened with the accident and my arm and I was in rehab and it was just a mess I mean…we weren’t together. I never thought to check in. I never imagined I had a _child._ ” Bucky pauses and Steve takes the opportunity to drop onto a stool across from him at the island. “I didn’t have to take her, they would’ve put her with a foster family. I could’ve faxed in the papers to waive rights but…I don’t know I had to see her. I went back out to Indiana after I got the letter and then I got there and I saw her and it was like…I _knew_.”

Maya lets out a sleepy sigh, her cup now tucked against her chest, and burrows herself deeper into Bucky’s chest. He takes it as a sign her—night terror or whatever Steve had called it—was is finally over and lets himself stroke her hair.

“Its crazy.” He continues. “After I lost my arm, when I was finally done with rehab and everything, I was lost. Honestly I’d never been great at anything when I was a kid, just average at a lot of things I guess. But with the corps…I’d found my place. I was a weapon. I never missed a mark. I was where I belonged and I was good at it, you know?”

“Yea…yea I know.”

“Being back, feeling useless, it messed me up pretty bad. But even after I got over the worst of it, met Sam down at the VA, saw a counselor, got my PTSD under control and all of that I still felt sort of…misplaced I guess. When I saw Maya I just knew. It was just like when I started at scout sniper for the 3/5th. I knew I was where I was supposed to be. _Im_ her dad, you know?  I need to protect her, its my job, my duty.... and I just don’t want to fuck it up.”

Steve nods, sensing that Bucky’s done. He’s quiet for a moment, thinking of how he could possibly respond. He doesn’t have any flowery words for Bucky, nothing inspirational, nothing he can say to make his ‘I think you’re a good dad’ carry any weight, all he has is his truth—that he’s a wreck. For some reason, something inside him suggests he should go with that.

“Look, if I’m being honest, I can barely take care of myself much less tell you how to take care of your kid. But…its just like you told me. I don’t _know_ you, but I…I know enough. I know you love the hell out of your little girl. I can see it all over your face. I know you fought through the desert and you fought through all the shit that goes along with coming home from the desert. I know you’ve got things going for you. Things I—things I wish I had. The most important things. Everything else… it’ll work itself out.”

Bucky’s surprised by how much better Steve’s words make him feel. Maybe he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, but Steve is right. He’s been in worse situations and he’s figured it out. In the desert, in rehab, here in Brooklyn.

That’s the pattern with his life, just when he thinks he’s got it all figured out everything changes—and then he figures it out again.

“Thanks.” He tells Steve, looking up and offering the man a smile. Steve shrugs and Bucky’s sure he notices his cheeks redden just a little bit. Its so simultaneously sweet and sexy that Bucky feels his lips stretch, smile growing involuntarily. He likes Steve, to tell himself anything else would be a lie. But unlike a few days ago when the thought had struck him and this blossoming friendship had seemed like an awful idea, today he embraces it.

‘I can barely take care of myself’ Steve had said, and it didn’t go unnoticed. Bucky loves Maya and he’ll do all he can do to take care of her, and if Steve can’t take care of himself then maybe...maybe Bucky will take care of him, too.

_____________________  
  


night terror examples for reference : [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-AANENfiB3Y) and [here ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HNixihSlL8Y)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seeeeeeee, it was nothing you guys ^.^  
> this stucky train is FINALLY on (ish) the tracks. all aboard! destination: loooovveeeeee <3  
> here and here


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im baaaaack. and i come bearing a nearly-4000 word gift.   
> also its two-thirty am and I'm exhausted so I will probably return to edit this chapter for typos/continuity, but I scanned it and it seemed good so I'm posting it (#yolo?)

**31 DECEMBER 2014**

Its 10 o’clock and Bucky’s flustered. Its New Year’s Eve and Sam should be here any minute and Steve should be following not long after and he cant find that vodka he bought a couple months ago but he’s sure he didn’t drink it and Maya is awake and holding her cup upside down watching the milk drip slowly from the little holes at the top even though its supposed to be spillproof and even though its past her bedtime and even though Sam will be here in literally—

_ding dong_

“Issa doh bell!” Maya declares, her attention drawn away from the mess she’s making all over the floor by the ringing that fills the brownstone. Bucky huffs a breath and pulls his head out of the cabinet, abandoning it wide open in favor of heading towards the door. He scoops Maya up into one arm as he makes his way through the living room.

“Maya...” He sighs and shakes his head at the milk puddle—it’s larger than he thought it would be—but an exasperated sigh is all he can muster by way of a reprimand. Maya let’s her head drop, knowing by Bucky’s tone that she’s done something wrong, but instead of looking sheepish and apologetic like she usually does she crosses her arms and huffs in defiance. Bucky’s too flustered to dwell on it. He just sighs again and switches Maya to his left hip so he can pull the door open.

“Bucky!” Sam exclaims by way of a greeting. His exuberance is both refreshing—he hasn’t seen his friend in weeks and to be honest, he’s missed him—and agitating—he’s already worked up and flustered, and the excitement just pushes him closer to overstimulation. He manages a half-hearted grin in response and steps back to let Sam through the door. Sam gives him a quick once over, takes in the tightness in his shoulders and the frustrated creases in his forehead, and lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “Ok, well, you—you must be Maya.”

Maya nods, but shrinks into Bucky letting her head drop onto his shoulder.

“Hey, don’t be shy!” Sam laughs. “I’m Uncle Sam, its ok.” Sam shoves the bag in his hand out to Bucky and then holds his arms towards Maya, who hesitates before looking to Bucky for guidance.

“Its ok. Go ahead.”  Bucky nods. She’s still tentative when Bucky passes her off to Sam, but she seems to be ok. Bucky knows by the earlier questioning eyebrow raise that Sam picked up on his imbalance, and he’s thankful that the man doesn’t push it.

When he’d woken up this morning he could tell it would be one of _those_ days, where everything was just off. He hadn’t slept well and even though he doesn’t remember the nightmare he’s pretty sure he had one—or several. Plus Maya had gotten up at the very ass crack of dawn, padded into his room, jumped on his chest, and demanded ‘denny, I wan waffews! Waffews, denny! Peas!’ Any other day, when Bucky’d had a restful night’s sleep and didn’t feel especially anxious and on edge, the gesture may have been cute; but today it’d just made him huff and bite his lip to keep from scolding her. The day hadn’t gotten better, though, and by the end of it he’d snapped on Maya more than once. He knew that it wasn’t her fault he was in a bad mood, but as much as he’d tried to keep a lid on his funky emotions he’d still managed to raise his voice and lose his patience. It was probably the reason she was acting out, being defiant, refusing to go to sleep and pouring milk all over his floor. On top of that he’d been rushing around all day trying to get things ready for tonight. There really wasn’t _much_ to get ready—it was just Sam and Steve coming over for New Year’s Eve drinks. They’d probably kick back, play cards, and talk loudly over the sound of fireworks. It wasn’t an occasion that was meant to be stressful, but Bucky had been stressing about it all day. Sam meeting Maya and Steve meeting Sam and the coming of a New Year and the uncertainty of how all of those things would go—what if Maya didn’t like Sam or Sam didn’t like Steve or what if a New Year is coming and Bucky isn’t ready because so much time is passing and he has it under control now but what if he cant keep it that way; because despite Steve’s words a few days ago he’s still been doubting himself as a parent and now he’s gone and had a bad day and he’s really not good for anyone, not for Maya and not for Steve; because Sam had said he was getting better, said Bucky was recovering but today Bucky doesn’t feel better or recovered. His mind wouldn’t stop racing, won’t stop racing still. 

But, Sam is here now and he trusts Sam with his life, so when Bucky’s sure that Maya isn’t going to burst into tears he turns to head back towards the kitchen so he can be alone with his thoughts for a minute. He can hear Sam holding a kiddy conversation with Maya—‘ _how old are you? 2?! Wow, that’s so big! Can you show me two on your fingers? Yea?! You’re so smart!’—_ as he opens the bag Sam gave him and pulls out a handle of rum, a two-liter coke, and several shot glasses. He puts it all in the freezer, shot glasses too, and discards the bag before remembering the milk all over the living room floor, grabbing the WetOnes from the pantry and heading to clean up the mess.

“Unkew?” Maya is saying as he steps into the room. Her head is quirked to the side, tell-tale sign that she’s processing new information.

Sam laughs. “Un-cle Sam.”

“Unkew!”

“Ok, Ok! ‘Unkew.’ Fine. Lets go with that.”

May nods and breaks into a grin. “Denny, iss Unkew!”

“Thank God,” Bucky murmurs. Maya pouts at the fact that Bucky doesn’t return her enthusiasm and again Sam raises an eyebrow at him.

“You sure you’re up for this tonight?” He asks.

“M’fine” Bucky grunts.

“It’s’okay to have bad days, y’know. Doesn’t mean you’re going backwards.”

“ _Yes_ Sam, I know. I’m fine.”

“I’m just saying, I’m sure Steve wouldn’t be upset if you told him you weren’t up for it.”

Bucky stops his hasty cleaning and sighs. “I know, Sam. Honestly, I’m fine. I just…just watch her for a minute, ok? I’m gonna—I’m gonna go…wash my face or something.”  Bucky ditches the used WetOne’s on an end table and heads for his bathroom. Inside, he clutches the sink and stares himself down in the mirror.

“C’mon Barnes. Get it together.” He murmurs to himself, taking a deep breath. He watches himself breathe in the bathroom mirror until he finds himself thinking about how his shoulders rise and fall with each breath instead of whether he’s scarred Maya for life by yelling at her, or whether Sam and Steve will end up fighting before the night is over, or how much he _likes_ Steve and hates being so fucked up because he’s supposed to be the strong one here.

A few more breaths and he realizes that Maya may be a bit upset with him for his impatience but raising his voice a few times hasn’t caused any irreparable damage, and that Sam and Steve have actually already met and it hasn’t ended in blows thrown, and that he is recover _ing_ not recover _ed_ , and that’s very well the way it may always be—it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have anything to offer Steve. He’s got himself mostly under control by the time the doorbell rings out through the Brownstone again and he’s able to muster an actual smile to greet Steve at the door. Steve smiles back, a small, bashful upturning of his lips accompanied by a slight reddening of his cheeks. Bucky swears his hearts stutters a bit.

“Hey,” Steve offers when Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Hey, sorry, come in.”

“I brought beer.” Steve holds up the two six-packs he’s holding, one in each hand. “Dos Equis.”

Bucky smiles. “Good to see a little class is rubbing off on you, Rogers.”

Steve laughs. “Oh no, I’m still a SamAdams man all the way. Just brought this to humor you.”

“Shame.” Bucky tsks and shakes his head. “Thanks, though. I’ll stick them in the freezer. Sam’s in the living room, he’s got Maya.”

Steve gives Bucky a look before offering a gentle smile and following the man towards the living room. “I take it she’s been giving you a run for your money today?”

“That’s an understatement. How can you tell?”

“I got in a lot of trouble when I was a kid, I know the look of a tired parent when I see one.” Bucky chuckles.

“Oh yea, I forgot you were a feisty little punk.”

“Damn straight, jerk.” Steve laughs and then bites his lip, stopping short outside the room. Bucky stops alongside him and knits his brow together in a silent question. “Uh, you’re ok though? I mean—you…I could…you seem—uh, you’re ok?”

Bucky smirks at Steve’s fumbling and even though he can’t get the words out, Bucky knows what he means— _I can tell it’s been a rough day_ , _I get it. Are you all right?_ Bucky nods, because the few minutes alone _had_ been helpful, but still he decides to go for honesty. “It’s been an off day, y’know?—more because of me than Maya, if I’m honest. But…yea, I’m ok.” He smiles. “Better now.”

The two words are out his mouth before he realizes how they sound, what they imply. _Better now…now that you’re here._ Really, it isn’t a lie—Bucky likes Steve more and more every time he sees him—but that isn’t what he meant. Steve’s cheeks redden and Bucky opens his mouth to correct himself but he can’t find the words.

“Uh—good, that’s…that’s’ good.”

“What about you? How’s it going?” Steve shrugs and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes dropping to his feet.

“I’m out of the house, that’s—its an accomplishment. Thanks. I mean for, thanks for asking but thanks for inviting me tonight and the other day, too. Its good to be around people. ” Bucky reaches up to clasp the man’s shoulder with his right hand.

“Of course.” He says, holding Steve’s gaze. “You’re always welcome here, Steve. Seriously.”

What seemed to be turning into a moment is crashed when Maya comes charging into the hall in a fit of giggles, Sam not far behind.

“No, wait, come back!” Sam is calling and Maya laughs until her momentum comes to a halt as she runs right into Steve’s legs. She steps back a bit startled but doesn’t cry, instead looking up to see what obstacle has gotten in the way of her escape.

“Steeb!” She exclaims.

Steve laughs. “Hey there, little bit. What’s up?”

“Pick me uh!” She jumps up and down and reaches up for him. Steve obliges with a smile, just as Sam enters the hallway.

“Iss Unkew!” Maya shrieks in laughter, all but climbing over Steve’s head to get away as Sam approaches.

“Maya! Maya! Don’t…c’mon…don’t climb on Steve he’s not a jungle gym.” Bucky sighs moving to grab her.

“No, no its ok.” Steve says with a smile. He grabs Maya from where she’s trying to climb over his shoulder and holds her up in front of him, lion king style. However, she’s less than enthused that Steve’s put an end to her little game and before Bucky can stop her she balls up her little fist and strikes him right in the eye. He’s taken by surprised but he doesn’t let go and so Maya lets her other hand fly, nails scratching at Steve’s face and leaving a few red marks.

“Hey! Hey! Maya, **stop it.”** Bucky grabs her from Steve’s arms and stands her on the ground, she writhes and snatches away, but he keeps his hands around her arms. “Maya, you need to stop it right now.”

“No!”

“ _Maya—”_

“ **No!”** The calm Bucky’d managed to grab ahold to just a few minutes earlier is quickly slipping through his fingers. He glares at her reproachfully—she glares back just as resolutely.

“Just as bullheaded as her daddy.” Sam murmurs and steps between them, taking Bucky’s hands off Maya’s shoulders—it doesn’t take much more than a brush, because he’s upset but he’s not hurting her, would never hurt her—and scoops the girl off the floor.

“What d’you say Uncle takes you up to your room and reads you a story _and_ you can watch Dora until you fall asleep?” She tears her eyes away from Bucky and looks at Sam—Sam, who she’s just met but seems to like more than Bucky at this moment, Sam who has 6 nieces and 3 nephews and has been called the child whisperer by his siblings, Sam who hasn’t had a bad day like Bucky and who has the patience of a saint and who Bucky trusts with his life. It’s the second time he’s thought as much, but Bucky has to keep reminding himself that he does, in fact, trust Sam with his life and so its ok for him to trust Sam with Maya’s, too.

“It’s the old guest room.” He tells Sam, and the man carries Maya off towards the stairs while Bucky heads back towards the kitchen. Steve follows not far behind him.

“You ok?” Steve asks as Bucky drops onto the barstool.

“I should be asking you, my kid just mauled you.”

“I was a prisoner of war for 6 months, Bucky, some scratches from a 2-year old hardly count as being mauled.” Bucky laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “She does pack a wallop in that fist though. Should get her in to boxing or something. Do they have that kind of thing for two-year olds?”

“Don’t think so.” Bucky chuckles again, this time there’s actually a bit of amusement there.

“Um, well, I said before I guess,” Steve starts after a moment of silence, “I can’t really offer a lot but I could listen, if you want to talk about it?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Its been a shit day, really. It was getting better, but I think Maya’s pissed at me for being a downer all day, that’s why she’s been acting out.” Steve nods.

“I was the opposite, I think. Whenever I got sick my mom would dote on me. It was so excessive, and it made me feel like a baby. I was like 8, so of course I was all about being a man, and I’d act out sometimes until she would get frustrated and just leave me be.”

Bucky pictures skinny little eight-year-old Steve, refusing to take his medicine or eat his soup until his mother left him alone.  He smiles.

“You were such a punk.” He laughs. Steve laughs and knocks him with his shoulder.

“Hey, I’m sharing my childhood stories to make you feel better, jerk. Not so you can laugh about what a little shit I was.”

Bucky chuckles. “Well its not my fault you were. But…thanks. I mean, it helps.”

“It helps me too, I think.” Steve shrugs. Bucky glances up to where Steve is sitting beside him, welcoming a further explanation. “I mean, like I said—being out of the house, being around people, it helps. But talking about my ma, my childhood…its… sometimes the only thing I can think about is the war, sometimes I can’t remember anything before I was war prisoner and a traumatized vet, y’know? So it helps, just thinking about, remembering—better times. Even if I was skinny and sickly and poor it was still good. Its hard to remember those things on my own, most of the time. But you and Maya, you—it…it helps.”

Bucky nods. “Steve I—I know, I’ve been reaching out and trying to help you—and I _want_ to, you have to know I really…I look at you and listen to you and I know your were a great marine, _are_ a great marine and a great man and I know what its like to come back and have nothing but your own fucked up thoughts and so you have to know that I’m here for you, I mean, if you want me to be. But I’m still…I’m not…”

“Bucky, no. You—what’s that thing Sam’s always saying? Recover is a road or something…”

Bucky chuckles. “Recovery is a journey, not a destination.”

“Yea,” Steve laughs, “that. I mean the fact that _this_ is your bad day. Being impatient with your kid, feeling off--gosh, Bucky, someday’s I cant even get out of bed, I just lay there all day and watch the sun rise and set and then moon rise and set and then the sun again. Some nights I pace my apartment, all night, checking the locks even though I know that they’re fine because I _just_ checked them fifteen minutes ago. I…I shut people out because I don’t want anyone to know how bad it really is. I stopped seeing my counselor and I isolated myself from society and that, that was really bad. There’s no way if I was having a bad day, I don’t know _how_ I would’ve done all that you’ve done, put up with me and Sam in your space, taking care of Maya… And I’m not saying that what you’re going through, I’m not saying that its not bad, that’s not what I mean. I just mean you’ve had to have come so far and that’s … I guess the only word for it is inspiring? I don’t expect you to be perfect, if that’s what you think. I don’t expect you to be anything really, but I’m glad that you are, whatever you are. Its good for you, for me.”

Bucky catches Steve’s eyes and Steve catches his and again they’re having some sort of moment. Bucky wants to kiss him, but he knows he shouldn’t. They barely know each other and they aren’t close enough friends to be friends-to-lovers but he also hasn’t asked Steve out so they cant be dating and so Bucky cant bring himself to kiss Steve. But he does reach out and tentitaviely touch the man’s face, feeling Steve’s skin against his palm, the slight increase in temperature and the man’s cheeks flush. Steve doesn’t move, though. He doesn’t press into the touch, but he doesn’t pull away either and Bucky runs his thumb across Steve’s cheek before letting his hand slide down to Steve’s neck. Steve moves then, his own hand coming up to grab Bucky’s neck and well, its like their inside each others heads when they both lean forward just enough for their foreheads to bump. They’re only like that a minute though, before Sam is coming into the kitchen clearing his throat. Both Steve and Bucky look up, but neither lets go.

“She’s almost asleep, but she’s asking for you.” Sam says. Bucky’s hand slides down across Steve’s shoulder and to his bicep, where he gives a squeeze before moving off his barstool.

“I put the rum in the freezer, make us shots Sam.” Sam tosses a halfhearted salute to Bucky and Bucky heads towards the stairs.

The light from the television fills Maya’s room with a dim bluish light and she turns to the door when he opens it and the yellow from the hallway floods in.

“Denny!” She says, sitting upright. Her eyes are teary and she scrambles out of bed, sleepy and clumsy, to run to him.

“Hey My girl. You all ready for bed, now?” He carries her back to the bed, but instead of laying her down he plops down onto it himself. It’s a bit low and a bit small, but he manages to fit with his back against the small pink headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him. Maya has tucked herself into his side and he can feel her nod against his chest. When he looks down, though, he can see the tears have escaped her eyes and are running all down her face.

“Im sorry, Maya. Its ok, Daddy’s not mad ok? It’s ok. I’m right here.” She untucks herself from his side and moves so she can wrap her little arms around his neck and burry her face in his shoulder, tears accompanied by actual crying now. Bucky wants to punch himself, in the face, with a brick. “Hey My, its ok. I’m sorry I was so impatient today, ok? Its ok, don’t cry. I love you My girl. Hey can you show Daddy how much you love me? Hm? This much?” He holds the arm that isn’t clutching Maya a bit over his head to demonstrate, she sniffles as she watches and vehemently shakes her head.

“Dis much!” She stretches her arms high above her head and Bucky laughs. “That’s my girl. Daddy loves you this much, too.”

She nods and lets her head fall back onto his shoulder. "Sleep sweetheart, its ok."

“Nigh Nigh, Denny.”

“Night Night, My.” Bucky kisses her forehead and rubs her back, and a sniffle and a sigh later he’s pretty sure she’s down for the count.

Its 11 o’clock and Bucky has had a long day, but its New Year’s Eve and Maya’s asleep and Sam and Steve are here and Bucky’s about to go drink a responsible amount of rum to celebrate the New Year. He flips off Maya’s TV and grabs the monitor so he’ll hear her if she wakes up, before heading out of the room. At the top of the stairs he pauses and smiles a bit to himself—the day had finally managed to turn itself around and he though he was tired and a bit weary, he was excited for what tomorrow would bring.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, so yea guess what? I GRADUATED FROM COLLEGE (CUM LAUDE BITCHESSS) (jk, i don't think you guys are bitches, i think you're great and awesome and amazing, ok? ok.) 
> 
> so yea, thats why i haven't been around since January, senior year would be the actual and literal worse year of my life, but its ok because i made it and I'm back and don't worry this story isn't over--its just beginning. :insert clever ship sailing pun I'm too tired to think of here:


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mini chapter: Sam's not having your shit, Bucky

**1 JANUARY 2015**

“Soooo you and Steve…” Sam starts.

He doesn’t look up from the plastic diner menu as he makes the comment, glancing casually back and forth between the french toast and the omelets. Bucky rolls his eyes. Not because of Sam’s nonchalance but because he knows its only partially feigned. Sam has a way of being completely undisturbed by most things—it’s probably the characteristic that makes him so good with kids. Kid throwing a fit? Bucky’s response is all panic and assertion and “ohmygodohmygod.” Sam is just calm and patient, waits it out and then asks “are you done now? ok lets watch Dora.”

It’s also the characteristic that drew Bucky to him as a counselor—he was straightforward and honest, in the most laid back way possible. When Bucky was at his lowest, Sam showed up cool as a cucumber and told him to get his ass out of bed—and then he stood there, leaning on the frame of Bucky’s bedroom door until Bucky _actually_ got his ass out of bed.

But as much as Bucky loves Sam’s patience and nonchalance, he hates them all the same. Because it means Bucky’s not going to be able to weasel himself out of this conversation, Sam will just wait it out. Maybe he’ll let Bucky change the subject once or twice but eventually they’ll return to it, with the same patience, the same casualness...

“There is no ‘me and Steve.’” Bucky replies cautiously, because its best to just shut it down instead of avoid it, right? “There’s me. There’s Steve.”

“Steeb?” Maya’s head pops up at the third mention of Steve’s name, her attention finally drawn from the paper menu she’s coloring on.

“No, Steve isn’t here.” Bucky tells her. She wrinkles her nose in a frown and goes back to her drawing.

Sam chuckles and gives Bucky a pointed look. A look that says _your kid knows and likes this guy but nothing’s up? Yea, horseshit, Barnes._ “ _Anyway._ Sure,there’s you, and there’s Steve. But there’s definitely a _you and Steve._ What d’you think I’m blind or something?”

“Sam, seriously, what are you talking about? Its not like you walked in on us kissing or something.”

Sam does look up for his menu then, mouth slightly parted and eyebrow raised in what Bucky thinks might be honest shock. “No,” Sam starts slowly. “actually, it looked way more meaningful than a kiss. Dude, if you tell me you didn’t realize I’m going to slap you upside your ridiculously large and obviously empty head.”

“It wasn’t like that!”

“Ok, please, I _have_ to hear this.” Sam puts his menu down and folds his hands over top of it. Bucky winces. He’d meant to end the conversation and he’d gone and dug himself in a hole, there’d be no changing subjects or shutting down.  “What was it like then? Cause Im pretty sure me and every other sane adult human being interprets ‘holding each other with foreheads pressed together’ as, like, the classic indicator of emotion or connection or some shi-uh-stuff.”

Bucky stalls. Considers telling Sam the truth. The truth is he _had_ realized. Not right away, but later that night once Sam and Steve had both taken off in taxis, comfortably drunk and smiling as they waved good-bye. Bucky had shut the door and barely made it up the stairs, peeking into Maya’s room before trudging to his own and collapsing onto the bed. He felt pleasant all over, his body lethargic and lazy due to the beer, but his blood and brain thrumming because of the rum. He’d laid there and closed his eyes and the first thing that had appeared was the image of Steve leaning into him. The way the Steve’s neck had felt beneath his finger tips, warm and firm, the callouses of Steve’s fingers against his own neck, clinging and brushing just slightly, the weight of Steve’s forehead against his own, the reassurance, the closeness and the quiet and the tenderness of touch silently communicating messages, ‘I’ve got you’ ‘I understand’ ‘I’m here.’ When he realized where his mind had gone he sat straight up in the bed, hand coming—ironically—to his forehead, as he took a minute to breathe. Because he’d _realized_ —him and Steve, they’d bypassed interest, attraction, lust, and went straight to intimacy. He _could_ tell Sam that, he could tell Sam that there really wasn’t a _him and Steve_ but he so desperately wanted there to be. He could tell Sam that moment had probably been building up over their past few interactions, when they seemed to just _get_ one another. To be drawn to one another. To want to talk to one another—and not just shoot the shit but really talk and understand and listen. He could tell Sam that wanted to be there for Steve, to help Steve, to protect Steve, that Steve was struggling and it was so obvious and that Bucky wanted to do anything he could to help him including kiss him all better even though that’s ridiculous and even though they’d only hung out a few times and even though they hardly even knew each other.

He _could_ tell Sam these things, but it was silly and stupid and Bucky is not about to sit in a diner at 1:00 pm on New Years Day and talk about his…his _crush_ on a grown ass man like he’s a 13 year old girl. So he shakes himself and fumbles over his tongue a bit before throwing out, apprehensively, “It was just like…grounding?”

“Grounding…” Sam responds skeptically, again, his eyebrow has gone sky high and he’s pinning Bucky with a look of disbelief. But Bucky figures its not completely a lie. Steve’s touch _was_ grounding for him. He hopes his touch was grounding for Steve, too. It had felt like it was, the way Steve’s muscles had relaxed under his palm and…. _Barnes, focus,_ he scolds himself.

“Grounding.” He says with more surety and a nod. He even meets Sam’s eyes.

Sam squints at him for a moment and Bucky forces himself not to bow under the scrutiny. Finally Sam’s face relaxes and he shrugs. “Alright, grounding.” He looks back down at the menu, “Do you think I should get French toast or an omelet? Both, right?”

“Yea, both.” Bucky, as stealthily as his can, releases the breath he’d been holding. He knows he’s only won the battle and not the war—there is no winning the war with Sam, only loss and surrender—but at least he lives to fight another day.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry maybe because this is a kinda painful. its just general depressive thinking. Steve's a selfless little shit, poor baby. 
> 
> TW for depressive thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another 4000-word-not-completely-proofread chapter. 
> 
> I went back and reread somethings and thought some things out and this is where Bucky and Steve took me. 
> 
> Also, pay special attention to the times/dates here--the last mini chapter took place in the early afternoon of 1 january 2015. this chapter takes place on the same day, except its from Steve's POV and starts after he leaves Buckys. 
> 
> Also, i feel like this chapter needs like a prologue, because a lot of whats happening is flushed out more in the chapter to follow. i'm gonna put an explanation in the end notes, so as not to spoil it. but if you want to read it beforehand just scroll down ! (it wont spoil anything major, will probably just change the way you look at Steve and his actions throughout the chapter)

**1 JANUARY 2015**

**3:12 AM**

Steve stumbles through his apartment door with a huff. He’s not _wasted,_ but he’s just drunk enough that if he gets in bed now he could probably sleep until morning without nightmares. Which would be the perfect end to a perfect night. Sure, it had started out a bit rocky—namely with him getting assaulted by a toddler—but really, he’d seen worse, and from what Steve could tell Maya was such a good kid, it was honestly a bit refreshing to witness her act out a bit. Just as refreshing as it was to see Bucky having a bad day. Because as much as he didn’t ever want to see Bucky hurt, and really, the exhaustion in Bucky’s eyes had fucking killed him and he did not ever want to see such frustration in Bucky’s eyes again, it was nice to know that he and his kid were humans and not perfect aliens sent from outer space to simultaneously help and torture Steve. And anyway, from there, it really had been the perfect night. Steve knew Bucky was hilarious, but Bucky _and_ Sam, together, had had him in stitches throughout the night. And on top of the laughter was the alcohol. And on top of that—or maybe underneath everything—was Bucky and he and Buckys ‘moment.’ Were he sober, he would probably try to convince himself that his moment with Bucky, pressed together at the kitchen island just breathing, just being, just for a second, was not the best moment of the night. But he isn’t sober and he doesn’t have much fight in him, so he plops down on the couch and a dopey smile pulls at his lips because Bucky’s hands had felt damn good against his skin, and that moment, however fleeting and potentially insignificant, had been just a slither, a tiny slice, of everything Steve needed right now in his life.

 

And maybe its just that his buzz is starting to wear off, or maybe its that he probably shouldn’t have been drinking in combination with the anxiety pills he took before going over to Bucky’s, but his nerves just wouldn’t calm down, or maybe its that just 20 minutes ago he’d been surrounded by laughter and now he was alone in his quiet, lonely, apartment or maybe it was that last thought—that Bucky was everything he needed in his life right now, but whatever it was, suddenly there was a metaphorical bucket of ice cold water tossed over Steve’s head and he was incredibly, unthinkably sad.

 

If he’s honest, he should have expected it. He always faces some sort of sadness when he comes back to his apartment after spending time with Bucky. When he returns to his life after a few hours in another—in a life where there is no stifling silence, and no crippling loneliness, and no unshakeable fears. It had happened the very first time they met, when he’d seen the way Bucky comforted Maya in the grocery store and he’d admired a man he didn’t even know. A man who’d served his country, gave an arm for his country, but had been able to come home to someone, someone he clearly cared about. He’d gone home and sat on his couch with his head in his hands and forced himself not to cry. Forced himself to take a hot shower and watch mindless television until the moment of envy passed. And the second time, when he’d ran into Bucky at the VA. He’d sat there in the circle, surrounded by people sharing their hurt and trying to cope with it, and Bucky had been there, nodding in agreement and encouragement, his eyes soft and understanding and encouraging, just like they’d been when he asked whether or not Steve had been sleeping. Steve had booked it out of the meeting right after, and stood in his apartment, hands clinging to the kitchen counter as he processed the stories he’d heard, ignored the feelings he’d felt, and felt fearful at the fact that Bucky had not only seen but took notice, concern, with Steve’s sleeplessness. Their third encounter, he’d come home to Nat and the fourth he’d had a break down. And why? Why was it that he couldn’t so much as see Bucky without coming home and feeling morose, forlorn, and miserable?

 

Its because Bucky was everything that he needed.

He was patience, understanding, kindness, contact, touch, laughter, everything Steve craved, everything he didn’t have in this shoebox south slope apartment. And when Steve admitted it to himself, even when he acknowledged that _some-got-damn-thing_ about Bucky Barnes called out to all the hurt inside of him and made it feel just a little bit better, he knew that was bad. He knew he couldn’t ask Bucky for that, because he actually _liked_ him. He also knew that no matter what, every time he encountered Bucky Barnes, be it for 5 minutes or 5 hours, he would return to his apartment, to his life, to his shell of a self, and he would be so unthinkably distraught by the fact that 15 minutes away was the comfort he sought, in the heartiness of Bucky’s laugh and the heaviness of his touch.

A wretched sound tears its out of Steve’s lungs and it’s so unexpected that he startles himself. He realizes then that he’s crying. Maybe because he’s drunk, or maybe because he’s lonely, or maybe because he’s crushed under the weight of what he’s just concurrently realizes he wants but will never have.

 

**9:51 AM**

Steve wakes with a start. His neck and back ache and when he surveys his surroundings he realizes he fell asleep on the floor in front of his couch. He groans as he sits up and takes a moment to breathe and remember last night. Right, he’d cried himself to sleep. With a sigh he pulls himself to standing, pulling at his shirt—the same one he’d worn too Bucky’s, only now crumpled and wrinkled—until he gets it over his head and tosses it into the hamper on his way to the bathroom. He shucks the rest of his clothes quickly, his mind is still agonized with the same thoughts from last night, but he tries his hardest to shut them out. The scalding shower water helps.

He, surprisingly, feels a bit better once he’s scrubbed himself a couple of times. His skin is pink and a bit raw in some places and he thinks that maybe that’s not good, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead he wanders into his kitchen to scavenge for food. His cabinets are mostly bare except for a couple of canned goods he would have to heat. The inside of his fridge isn’t much better but there is a pint of lo-mien that probably isn’t that that old…right? It doesn’t smell bad and so he grabs a fork and eats it cold, standing in front of the open fridge and focusing on the cool air hitting his freshly scrubbed skin and the rubbery taste of the old noodles instead of ‘the thoughts.’

On a whim, he decides to go for a ride. Him, his bike, and the open road. It’s the best place to both think and not think and he can’t stay in the apartment, the walls feel like they’re closing in on him. Thus, once he’s finished the last of his lo-mien and chucked the container in the trash, he closes the refrigerator, grabs a hoodie, his leather jacket, wallet and keys and heads towards the door. He considers leaving his phone because he doesn’t want to have any contact with anyone, not really, but decides to take it just in case. He slips into the hoodie, puts his jacket on over, and shoves his wallet and phone into his pocket before heading out.

Steve rides for a while. He leaves Brooklyn, heads towards a route out of Glen Cove that he used to ride with his dad. They’d drive out to Long Island to visit family and Steve would beg and beg until his dad would let him tag along with his uncles and older cousins, holding on for dear life even when they weren’t going that fast, but exhilarated all the same. He was young and sick, but neither mattered once they were out of the road. The wind whipped all around them, the trees and the water and all of Steve’s problems were a blur, left behind in the dust of his dad’s Harley. It takes him an hour just to get to Glen Cove, but its early and traffic isn’t bad—he supposes most people are still holed up recovering from their New Year’s Eve hangovers. He travels the familiar roads; the directions come back to him naturally even though he hasn’t been out in nearly 20 years. As Steve suspected, its easy for his mind to be quieted here. He relishes in the feel of the bike beneath him, the thrum of the engine, the whisk of the wind, the pull of the road. They all draw him in; call him closer. He doesn’t have to think here, just has to follow.

So follow he does—until his stomach growls. When he pulls off at a diner and checks his phone he realizes he’s been out for nearly four hours. He orders a burger and it’s amazing the way diner food always is, greasy and messy and satisfying. The waitress smiles at him, she’s a very pretty blonde, soft features and bright eyes and when Steve looks at her he’s reminded of Bucky. He doesn’t know why—she doesn’t look like him, doesn’t sound like him, there’s no rational reason for the association in his mind, maybe its simply that fact that he’d let his guard down for a moment and given the thoughts the room to slither in, but whatever the reason after an entire afternoon of purposefully not thinking about it, now he’s thinking about it. Thinking about his problems. Thinking about Bucky. His appetite dwindles even though he’s only eaten half of his food, and he leaves a twenty on the table, shrugs back into his jacket, and gets back on the road to head home. But still, he’s started now, and he can’t stop. Even when he tries to focus on the feel of the bike, the pull of the road, his mind goes back to the warmth and comfort that builds in his chest whenever Bucky looks at him like he sees him, _really_ sees him, like for the first time since he was a stick thin kid fighting in a back alley someone knows that he’s _not_ okay. Back to the need that stretches over every fiber of his being when Bucky touches him; not sexual need, but literal need. _Please-literally-no-one-has-touched-me-in-months_ need, the raw desperation of touch starvation. Back to the hope that bubbles in his chest when he watches Bucky ruffle Maya’s hair or scoop her up off the floor and she falls into a fit of giggles—the hope that maybe one day he could be that happy, too. Back to the comfort in Bucky’s words; to the beauty in his smile; to the fact that Steve can’t have these things.

The fact that Steve let himself be captured as a prisoner of war to save his men and he’ll let himself succumb to his loneliness and depression if it means saving Bucky.

In his mind he can hear Natasha scolding him. He can hear Peggy tsking. He can even see Sam shaking his head, telling him gently that that’s not the way it works. They all tell him that it’s just the depression talking right now because he had a little too much to drink and a few too many pills, and because he was a got damned prisoner of war and he hasn’t had any counseling and because he’s trying to be strong when he doesn’t have to. But they’re wrong.

They’re wrong.

 

**6:04 PM**

The sun’s low in the sky when Steve rides back into Brooklyn, and his minds still…he doesn’t know the right word. He isn’t thinking anymore, not so much as he’s just hurting. He heads back to his apartment on autopilot, barely noticing the street signs, trudging along mindlessly. When he finally stops, parks, and looks up to find himself outside of Bucky’s brownstone he laughs. Its harsh and humorless and a bit pathetic. He loses the helmet and takes a moment to let his head fall into his hands. Of fucking course this is where his mindless self would take him. Of. Fucking. Course.

And of fucking course it would be just his luck that coming up the sidewalk towards the brownstone is Bucky himself. He’s got Maya in his arms, it looks like she’s asleep.

“Steve?” Bucky asks as he approaches. Steve climbs off the bike, worrying his hands together and trying not to look on the outside the way in feels on the inside.

“Hey,” He says weakly. “I was just in the neighborhood and I thought maybe, I don’t know, I just stopped by, I—Sorry I should—”

“No, no! I mean, I’m lucky I caught you. Took Maya out with Sam today. We went to the park and museum, and ice skating—Sam’s suggestion. He wanted to do the whole “uncle” thing. We’re just getting back—”

“I know its probably been a long day, I’ll, I can get out of your hair really, I didn’t want anything I mean I was just—”

“Steve, really. Its no problem. C’mon. Come in.” Bucky’s at the steps but Steve is still standing beside his bike. Like a threatened animal. Bucky’s brow furrows and instead of climbing the few steps to his front door he comes towards Steve. He moves slow and with intent. Making sure Steve can see the hand when it reaches out for him and grabs his shoulder.

“Steve…are you ok?”

Steve hates it. He hates those three words because they are the hardest to be strong in the face of. When the out is right there, staring you in the mouth. When its as easy as saying no…no I’m not ok…and that’s that. And he could. Right now he could say ‘no’ and Bucky would probably help him. Would ask him inside and offer him water or beer or coffee and ask him whats wrong and offer to listen and that would be nice. But then he would leave and go back to his empty apartment and he’d be alone, again, and it would hurt worse because just moments before he’d have had comfort. The thought rips through him and threatens to wrench a sob from his throat but he catches it, swallows it. Looks up and fakes a smile.

“Yea, yea I’m ok. Its cold out, you should go put Maya down and Im just going to—”

“Steve I swear to God if you say ‘go’ I might punch you in the face. You’re not ok, I’m looking at you, you look like you’re about to…Christ Steve you look like you’re about to break down or pass out or both, I don’t know. Just…please, please just come inside.” Steve hesitates for a moment but he gives in. His nod is barely a movement but Bucky sees it and nods in return. And then the hand that had been gripping Steve’s shoulder slides down and wraps itself around his hand and again Steve feels like he might cry. Bucky doesn’t notice though, or if he does he doesn’t say as much. He just moves towards the steps, up them and to the door, holding Maya in one arm and pulling Steve gently along with the other. He has to let Steve’s hand go to fumble for the keys but the moment he’s got the door open he grabs it again, pulling Steve in the living room towards the couch. They’re standing there, facing each other, Maya still held in Bucky’s left arm, and Bucky takes Steve’s hand, their fingers intertwined, and holds it against his cheek.

“Are you breathing Steve?” He asks and Steve realizes that he isn’t, not really. His breaths are shallow. “C’mon Steve. Breathe, ok? In and out.” He demonstrates and Steve mimics him after a couple of tries. Deep inhales, deep exhales. Bucky nods. “Good,” He murmurs. “I have to go lay Maya down and lock up, okay? But I need you to keep breathing.” Steve nods shakily and Bucky squeezes his hand before taking their intertwined fingers and pressing them to his lips. Bucky nods again, and Steve doesn’t know if it means ‘keeps breathing’ or ‘this okay?’ or ‘its gonna be alright’ but he nods back and he breathes.

*

Bucky locks up the front door and heads upstairs to put Maya in bed. She’d fallen asleep on his shoulder during the short walk from Sam’s brownstone around the corner to his own, and once he’d seen how wrecked Steve looked he was glad for it. When he’d first saw Steve there, straddling his bike in front of Bucky’s brownstone he’d thought to himself ‘speak of the devil.’ Because they had been speaking of him at Sam’s, just before Bucky left. Well, technically, Sam had been speaking of him. He hadn’t pressed the way he had earlier, simply told Bucky ‘do something about your little crush —and by little I mean _big,_ like _huge_ c’mon man you’re not hiding that from me. It might be good for the both of you, Barnes.’ Bucky had nodded and rolled his eyes, and once again counted the fact that Sam didn’t actually make him talk about it as a win. But then he’d rounded the corner and got close to his brownstone and saw Steve standing there and he’d felt…he doesn’t know what he felt. But he knows it was good, until he got close enough to see, to _really_ see, how Steve looked; how he seemed so…afraid, so sad, so pained.

He manages to change Maya into her PJ’s without waking her too much, and when he tucks her in she falls right back asleep within the minute. Bucky kisses her forehead, flips the light, and all but runs back down the stairs.

Steve is right where he left him, standing in front of the couch, but his eyes dart to the entry of the living room when Bucky appears. It only takes a few strides to make it back in front of Steve.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Steve shakes his head no.

“Can you tell me what would help?” He tries. Again Steve shakes his head no. Bucky can _see_ the pain he’s in. Can literally see it behind his eyes, the way he winces, the frown, the stiffness. “Are you hurt? Do you need medical?” Again, Steve shakes his head.

“I should go.” Steve whispers.

Bucky sucks his teeth. He takes Steve’s face in his hands and looks at him, leans forward a lets their foreheads touch.

“Steve, you are not leaving here like this. I don’t care if I have to keep you here all night. I will. Or if you really want to leave I’ll call Sam. I’ll have him stay with Maya and I’ll go with you, back to your place. But I’m not, Im **not** letting you be alone right now, ok? You…you said it yourself. You said you shut people out because you don’t want anyone to know how bad it is, right?”

Steve’s eyes slip closed and he nods, feeling himself begin to unravel.

“Well I know, Steve. You don’t have to hide how bad it is because I’m looking at you, right now, and I can see its bad.” Bucky’s voice drops to a murmur and one hand brushes back from Steve’s face into his hair. “You’re hurting, Steve. I see you hurting. Please tell me why, I can’t help you unless you tell me something, Steve, pleas—”

“Its you.” Steve breaks away and brings his hands to his hair to—to pull—to hold on, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know much of anything right now, only that he’s breaking.

and that’s why he’d come here, isn’t it? To break?

This is his SOS, his cry for help.

That’s why after everything his bike and his brain had brought him right back to Bucky Barnes.

“Wh-what?” Bucky stammers.

“I—I was ok, before. I mean, I wasn’t but I-I was. I could pretend I was. But now I’ve…I’ve seen?” Steve paces from one side of the room to the other, “I’ve felt, with you, what better feels like—it had been so long since I’d laughed before you, so long since anyone had so much as clapped me on the back, so long since anyone had really listened or really saw or even really cared.” Steve’s fists clench at his sides and he shakes his head. “It was just me, and it was bad but it was ok. But now its me and you and Maya…and then its just me again. And its worse. Its s-so m-much worse.”

Steve’s dam breaks and a sob tears through him. He stops pacing and wraps his arms around himself. “I go back to my apartment and it feels like I’m in that hole in the middle of the desert again,” he sobs, “its quiet and its desolate and its lifeless just like I am…I used to pretend all the time like I was ok even though I wasn’t. But—but now, sometimes I actually get to be ok.” Steve chuckles and its so dark and humorless, so hopeless and distressed that it turns Bucky’s stomach “Eve-Everything Bucky. You’re everything. You’re good for me, I-I said that didn’t I? Its like a dream that I’m in when I’m with you. I don’t know _why_ I don’t..I don’t but it _is_ Bucky. And--and then I wake back up to a nightmare.” Steve’s words break off then, and he sobs brokenly. Bucky’s by his side as soon as he stops talking, his hands find Steve’s face again and they stay pressed against his skin.

“Jesus Christ Steve…” He murmurs, mostly to himself. He lets himself down onto the couch and pulls Steve down with him, into his arms. Its unconventional because Steve is taller and broader than Bucky is, but here Bucky is with a lap full of him he doesn’t think twice about it. The man is trembling, shaking, wracked with his sobs, his pain, and Bucky does everything he can to comfort him. He can't find the words, any words, and so he settles for touching, fingers through hair and a cheek to forehead and a small barely audible. "Its ok."

“It…it hurts,” Steve whispers back and Bucky feels like his heart shatters into a million pieces. “It _hurts_.”

“I know, Stevie. I know it hurts.” He holds Steve closer to his chest, wraps his arms around him, a leg too, and hopes the pressure and the body heat can ease the ghostly pain Steve’s experiencing. “but I’ve got you, ok? I got you.”

“No. I don’t have anyone, Bucky. No one…I can’t have--”

“No, Steve, look at me” Bucky manages to guide Steve’s head up from his chest so their eyes meet. “Thats not true. You have me. You _have_ me, ok? And we’re going to fix it. I promise,” Steve shakes his head but Bucky stops him.

“Listen to me, Steve. Listen to me ok? Please. You’ve lived through enough nightmares for one lifetime. You don’t have to save yourself from this one.” Steve’s answer is a sob, a whimper, but Bucky doesn’t let him drop his head. “Not alone, ok?” He presses his forehead against Steve's. This is their kiss, their connection, their lifeline. This is where they breathe in each others air and look into each others souls and understand, agree. He shakes his head, lets his eyes fall shut, and whispers with vehemence, "Not alone, Steve."

Finally Steve nods, fresh tears spill over and wet his face.

and Bucky nods again. Steve doesn’t know if it means ‘its ok to cry’ or ‘you’re not alone’ or ‘i've got you’ but he nods back

and he breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so here's whats going on. the last chapter (not mini chapter but entire chapter) was the NYE thing right. and we all know Steve can barely be around humans because he's doing this whole 'isolate-myself-dont-ask-for-help-grr-strong-man-is-strong' thing. which means in order to even get out the house and to Bucky's he'd probably pop a pill. Except he ends up taking two just in case and he rarely takes them (because he rarely goes out to see people) and so he really isn't privy to the fact that he should not drink while on said medication. 
> 
> thus, this chapter may seem a bit over-dramatic--its because Steve is all fucked up because of his unintentional pill/alcohol cocktail. this is mentioned briefly in this chapter a couple of times. Steve alludes to the fact that it could be his mixing of substances thats got him in such a bad way, but its a back-of-the-consciousness thing
> 
> I don't want to give away my entire end-game for the next chapter, but basically, a lot of what Steve thinks and feels is him, but the crippling pain he feels because of it is an amplification of the cocktailing. 
> 
> its bad because COCKTAILING ANY TYPE OF DRUG AND ALCOHOL IS BAD (its BAD. DO NOT try at home. you will probably feel like shit. also, Sam is watching you and he hears no lies so don't even try it) but in this instance its good because Steve can't help but finally seek the help he needs. 
> 
> finally, i based his reaction off of my own reactions to AD/anxiety meds and alcohol, so its not like made up, but it also might not be typical or normal or whatever.
> 
> ALSO you guys are fucking fantastic. like literally, your comments GIVE ME LIFE. even when its just a 'yay update' I'm just like omg people actually like this brainchild of mine?! it makes me so happy. so THANK YOU. really.  
> and 330 kudos? what the fuuuck?! I'm just. you guys rock. i love you all :*


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mini chapter: night time snuggles and maybe a confession of love (or something)

Steve is sleeping. Bucky had held him until he finally stopped shaking and when he looked down the man was fast asleep, his usually neat hair tousled against Bucky’s chest and his magnificent blue eyes shielded from view by closed lids and lingering fat tear drops on incredibly long lashes. His cheeks were flushed and covered in tear tracks, but despite it all he seemed at peace, perhaps the most at peace Bucky had ever seen him. It caused a range of emotions to well in Bucky’s chest—for one, he was saddened by the fact that Steve was hurting, by the fact that he’d been so riled up that he’d exhausted himself; however, there was also the feeling of pride at the fact that now, lying almost completely on top of Bucky with his head pressed against his chest, soothed by _his_ words and _his_ touch, Steve seemed to be at ease. Bucky isn’t sure whether or not to chastise himself for the fact that he never wants to leave this place. He never wants to sacrifice the feeling of Steve in his arms, warm like the perfect summer’s day and heavy like his favorite winter blanket and most of all close where Bucky can watch him, protect him, help him, feel him, and maybe start to love him…

Bucky lets out the breath he’d been holding and gives a gentle caress to Steve’s brow with his thumb. No, he’s not going to think about that right now. He still needs to get up, check the locks, and check on Maya before he can settle down for the night, but he won’t do that right now, either. Instead he manages to grab the remote from the arm of the chair, flicks on the television, and waits.

 * 

The first time Steve wakes its that odd entrance to awareness that only occurs when one falls asleep accidentally. His brain stutters to life with a sense of ‘who am I?’ ‘what happened?’ and ‘what year is it?’. Typically, this happens to Steve when he finally manages to doze off in front of his television, usually around 4 or 5 in the morning because by then he’s too tired for nightmares and can finally manage a few hours of dreamless sleep before stumbling awake in a confused haze. This time, however, he’s halfway sure that he isn’t on his couch, mostly because his face is wedged against an incredible warmth. He tells himself that he should wake all the way up, investigate what sort of furnace he’s got his face shoved into but honestly, he can’t be bothered. He still doesn’t have a great grasp on ‘what happened’ and ‘what year is it’ but he does know that he feels like the got hit by a Mack truck going full speed down the highway and the thought of moving makes him groan. So he bunkers down, buries his face deeper in to the warmth and sighs, its only a few seconds before sleep claims him again.

*

The second time Steve wakes he manages to drag himself to full consciousness. His body hurts and he’s utterly exhausted and it would be easier to just give up and fall back into his half-dead trance, but he fights the throes of sleep and peels his eyes open so he can begin to figure out where he is and what’s happening.

“—Steve? Hey, easy, easy. Its ok, you’re ok.” That voice. That _voice._ He’d fallen asleep to the sound of that voice, softer, whispering, words and tenor so kind and concerned that Steve is tempted to chase it, to fall into the neck of its owner and be soothed back to sleep. “Steve, you with me? Hey, talk to me Stevie.” Stevie. No one’s called him that since his ma passed away, no one except… _I know, Stevie. I know it hurts…_ Bucky. Right, he’s at Bucky’s. “Mmph, wha’timeissit?” He huffs. It comes out a lot more slurred than he’d intended it to, and he knows its because despite being awake he’s still unrealistically fatigued. Still he shakes his head in an attempt to clear it and pushes himself up again, this time off of the couch.

“Its 12:30.” Bucky answers, quick to stand alongside him. His hand finds the small of Steve’s back and steadies him on his feet and yea, Steve’s grateful for that because he was having a time finding his footing. “C’mon, lets get you some water, you could probably use it.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for his response; he just moves his touch from Steve’s back to his hand and tangles their fingers together. The touch is familiar; he remembers Bucky taking his hand outside of the brownstone and dragging him inside and into the living room. He’s got half a mind to read into it but its nice and so he just lets himself be lead into the kitchen and guided onto a barstool and handed a glass of cool water.

“Better?” Bucky asks when Steve has downed the glass.

“Yea…yea, thanks.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I…” Steve starts, stops, sighs. “m’tired.” Its simultaneously an answer and a deflection and he knows that Bucky will understand.

“I know. You were really out on the couch. Actually, I’m still not sure you’re awake now.” He chuckles. Steve chuckles, too.

“m’awake.” He assures. “barely, though. M’juss…m’tired.” Steve scrunches his nose, he’s pretty sure he said that already. Bucky’s chuckle tells him he’s probably right.

“C’mon, you can take my bed.”  Before Steve can open his mouth to protest—to tell Bucky that he has problems falling asleep, to tell Bucky that he gets restless and it will take hours before he’s out again, to tell Bucky that its ok because he only sleeps a few hours a night anyway, anymore and the nightmares wake him up—Bucky adds, “I can stay with you, if you want. I don’t mind I mean, if you feel more comfortable with someone watching your back or, uh, I guess if you need a…a human teddy bear, maybe? I mean—it just…it seemed to help you sleep, earlier.”

Steve shakes his head. “I—I couldn’t ask…I know you’re helping me out but I wouldn’t ask, I mean its just…just awfully intimate for a friend and I don’t even know if, if you’re _that_ way and I couldn’t ask--I wouldn’t--”

“Steve. I wouldn’t mind, even if I wasn’t “that way _”_ and if we were just friends but…I am. _That_ way, I mean, both ways actually, and...and I’m interested in being a lot more than just a ‘friend helping you out’ at this point…” Steve looks up at Bucky with a face of confusion. “I know its not fair of me to spring this on you, not after today and not in the middle of the night so lets just...lets go upstairs, go to sleep, and we’ll talk about it—all of it—in the morning?”

Steve nods his assent and Bucky gives him a small smile, cupping Steve’s face with one hand and taking Steve’s hand in the other. Gently, slowly, softly, with reverence and care Bucky lifts Steve’s knuckles to his lips and presses a kiss there for the second time tonight. He leads Steve by the hand back through the living room, flipping off the lights and the television. They stop at the front door to double check the deadbolts and when Bucky drops Steve’s hand, Steve finds himself catching ahold to Bucky’s shirt just to maintain the contact. He feels like they’ve entered some sacred space, like if he ever loses physical contact with Bucky he’ll fall in the abyss that’s been clambering to swallow him since he crawled out of that hole in the desert.

They do break the contact though, after the doors and windows are locked and Bucky’s peeked in on Maya and they’ve finally made it to Bucky’s room. Steve finds as he shucks his jacket and shirt and stumbles out of his pants, that he doesn’t fall into the abyss; still, when Bucky drops his hand so they both can get undressed time seems to slow to an unbearable speed and it feels like days before Bucky is taking his hand again, pulling Steve into the bed alongside him.

It should be awkward, because they are both half naked in only boxer briefs and they’ve never done this before, but it isn’t. Bucky pushes himself under the duvet, sprawled on his back and Steve wastes no time lying on his stomach and draping half his body over Bucky. He holds on to him with arms around his middle and a cheek pressed to his heart, he lets out a breath, allows himself to relax into the warm skin and firm muscles, burrowing down as though Bucky’s body will conform like memory foam. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, and once Steve is settled he lifts one hand to the man’s hair and runs his fingers through the short strands. The other rubs Steve’s bare back soothingly, tracing his spine slowly from the small of his back to the back of his neck and back again. Steve closes his eyes in surrender to his tiredness, and in just a few minutes he’s asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THREE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY KUDOS :passes out:  
> (ps/spoiler alert: kisses next chapter probably O.O)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kiss  
> surprise visitor  
> more kiss 
> 
> feat. feeling, steve is low-key an idiot, protective!Bucky, and maya being adorable because she just is

 

**2 JANUARY 2015**

The sun, muted white gold from the snowy New York sky, filters in through the window and pulls Bucky from his dreams. On his dresser the clock declares that its just after 7 am. Steve currently has his back pressed to Bucky’s chest, his massive form curled up as the little spoon, his fingers tangled with Bucky’s where both their hands rest over Steve’s chest; Bucky isn’t sure if he’s awake yet. He presses his nose into the back of Steve necks and breathes, ghosts one, two, three barely-there kisses to Steve’s nape before settling in to maybe fall asleep for another hour, until he hears the little footsteps in the hallway—Maya’s up.

Honestly, he’s a bit surprised that she’s slept this long given how early she’d gone to bed the night before. Bucky dislodges himself from Steve as carefully as possible, conscious of the way Steve moves back in search of Bucky’s warmth when he’s finally removed himself completely. Steve’s muscles tense, but they relax when Bucky runs a hand through his hair and drops a kiss on his shoulder.

Those few seconds of contact when he kisses Steve in these obscure places, he imagines that he can feel the life thrumming against his lips, blood pumping through the veins just beneath Steve’s skin, the callouses on his knuckles, the fine hairs on his neck, the slightly raised freckles on his shoulders. In those few seconds they all scream out to Bucky and Bucky screams back _I feel you, I feel you, I_ feel _you._ Its so overwhelming, and wonderful, and intimate…and, it’s a new favorite thing of Bucky’s.

He doesn’t dwell on that thought though, instead slipping out of bed just in time to meet Maya at the door, one hand rubbing her sleepy eyes.

“Guh mornin Denny.”  She greets, reaching out to be picked up. Bucky smiles and obliges.

“Good Morning, Maya.”

“I wunna wash Peppa.”

“Ok, lets go downstairs.”

Maya gives him a perplexed look and shakes her head. “No, in _your_ woom.”

Bucky sighs. Most mornings when she’s up this early she lays on his back and watches Peppa Pig while he dozes for another hour or two, its their quiet-morning-routine. As opposed to their loud-morning-routine where Maya comes charging full speed ahead down the hallway and into Bucky’s room, jumping on the bed—or his chest—demanding food, or Dora, or both. Either way, their mornings have a pattern and of course Maya would look at him like he’s a fool for suggesting something outside of it. He thinks of what he wants to tell her and finds that the best route seems to be the truth—or a version of it, at least.

“Steve is sleeping in Daddy’s room right now.”

“Steeb?”

“Yes. He—” Bucky hesitates, “He doesn’t feel very good, so he’s sleeping here until he feels better.”

“Steeb iss huwt?” Bucky huffs a dry laugh at her phrasing, shakes his head and tries not to dwell on the irony.

“Yea My, Steve is hurt. He’s gonna be ok though. Whaddyou say we go downstairs and watch Peppa and then we can make pancakes.”

“We make panncase for Steeb so him feew bettew!” Bucky huffs another laugh.

“It’s so nice that you want to help Steve feel better, Maya.” He tells her, kissing her forehead before pulling his bedroom door closed to head to down the hallway. Somewhere in the back of Bucky’s head he can here Sam saying _yea, bet she gets that from you._

_*_

Bucky is standing beside Maya, who is standing in a kitchen chair “stirring” the pancake mix, when Steve shuffles into the kitchen. He’s wearing his jeans, t-shirt, and hoodie from last night but his feet are bare, so Bucky supposes he’s not about to try and make a run for it.

“Mornin’” Bucky greets him with a smile.

Steve smiles in return but it’s a quiet, shy little thing. “Morning.”

“Guh mornin!” Maya chirps. “Weew makin panncase!”

“Pancakes? Yummy.”

“Yes! Iss yummy! Deeelishus.” Steve laughs.

“Are you making enough for me?” Steve asks, plopping onto the stool across from where Maya is stirring.

“Yes! Panncase for you.” And then as though she’s just remembered something Maya stops stirring and climbs down from her chair, running around the island and jumping up into Steve’s arms. She throws her arms around his neck and hugs him tight. Steve is visibly caught off guard. He looks at Bucky, arms hovering above Maya’s back.

“I might have told her you weren’t feeling very good.” Bucky shrugs by way of explanation. Steve laughs, a bit breathless and in wonder, and hugs Maya back.

“Panncase make you feel bettew,” She tells Steve before climbing down. “C’mon denny less get to wuhk!”

Steve laughs again and Bucky shakes his head, helping her scramble back into her chair and putting a hand over hers to help hurry the process along. Steve sits on the stool and watches Bucky—and Maya—work in the kitchen. Bucky drops the pancakes on the griddle and at her insistence tasks Maya with bringing the eggs from the refrigerator with instruction to be ‘very _very_ careful.’ Steve grins as she tiptoes to the fridge and back, collecting the carton of eggs and cradling them like a baby as she brings them to Bucky; he’s actually pretty impressed. In fact, he’s impressed with the finesse with which Bucky is able to work in the kitchen with a two year old. He imagines they must do this often—Bucky knows just how long he can leave Maya standing in her chair without a task before she gets restless, knows exactly what tasks to give her to keep her occupied long enough so that he can get something done, knows how to make sure she feels included and not just tolerated. Steve catches himself smiling and tries to bite it back, but it still seems to slip through.

Bucky alternates between flipping pancakes and helping Maya scramble the eggs and when he gets ready to toss them in the pan he sends Maya to the fridge for milk.

“Iss too hebby!” She calls. Before Bucky can move though, Steve hops up and grabs the milk out of the door of the fridge, glad to feel at least a little useful. Again, Bucky gives him a smile and Steve responds with his own small, shy upturn of lips.

When the food is done, Bucky fixes plates for the three of them. He hoists Maya into her high chair and drags it over to the island before plopping down onto the stool between her and Steve. They don’t talk much. Well, Bucky senses that Steve’s on edge and so he suggests Maya tell him about their day yesterday—which she does, gladly. She tells Steve about playing on the swings at the park and looking at the plants in the kid’s museum and how “Unkew nos _ebery_ thing” (Bucky suspects this is actually a direct quote from Sam and he rolls his eyes). Maya’s chattering keeps breakfast from being one excruciatingly long and awkward silence, and halfway through Bucky takes note of the smile that’s settled on Steve’s face as she talks.

“Maya really likes you.” Bucky tells him once she is all done eating, exasperated with entertaining the adults, and has run off to play in her toy box behind the couch.

“She’s a really good kid, smart, too. I guess I’m honored I get her stamp of approval.”

“Trust me, its not easy. She’s intuitive, got one hell of a gut.” Bucky laughs. “You grow up around kids?”

“No…but my first couple of tours deployed I was wrapped up in a lot of rescue and refugee work, we saw a lot of kids everyday. The older ones—they were testy, didn’t want us there, not very trusting. But the younger ones were always willing to give us a chance.” Steve shrugs and then, to Bucky’s surprise, he blushes. “I got close to a lot of them, they’d swarm me anytime we came into the camp saying this…this phrase its-- well in Farsi it means ‘the kind man.’”

Bucky is stunned for a moment before his grin splits his face.

“You speak Farsi?” Bucky asks.

“Yea Farsi… Arabic, and French. I had to learn Farsi before we were deployed to Iran. After that I was in the Middle East and I started picking up a lot of Arabic words and phrases. I figured might as well go ahead and put the effort in.”

“and the French?”

“I took it in high school. There was a French guy in my unit. When he found out he would only speak to me in French ‘so I’d never lose it.’” He says that last part with his best French accent and Bucky laughs. “We were in North Africa for a while at one point, though, a lot of citizens there spoke French, so it came in handy. I can understand Russian and a few other Slavic languages, too but I don’t speak them very well.”

Bucky shakes his head, “You’re somethin’, Steve Rogers.”

Steve’s blush deepens and he bites his lip. “I-uh-thanks.”

Bucky gathers the dishes and dumps them into the sink and Steve remains in his seat, twiddling his thumbs. Despite how warm Bucky has been all morning, he feels pinned to his spot by the inevitable conversation he and Bucky need to have, the conversation he knows he owes Bucky after showing up on his doorstep wrecked and falling apart. He knows Bucky will be open and understanding, but he still feels the anxiety bubbling in his gut, especially after Bucky’s cleared the counter and he comes around the island and takes a seat beside Steve.

“So…” He starts, “You wanna tell me what happened yesterday?”

Steve almost laughs. _No_ he thinks to himself _, as a matter of fact, I don’t_. But Bucky is so calm, so non-threatening, so patient. When Steve doesn’t answer right away, Bucky reaches out and takes his hand.

“If you really don’t want to talk about it, I won’t push you. I just…I think it would help. I think it would help you and I think it would help me to help you—we could…we could get you the help you need.” Bucky huffs a nervous laugh. “And honestly I’d be lying if I said it didn’t… I’m just worried, ok? I want to help. I want you to be ok.”

Steve looks at Bucky and he’s startled by the man’s expression. It’s _almost_ akin to the fear and worry written on his face when Maya had had that night terror. Its not as intense, but it communicates the same message—I care about this person and I need them to be ok.

That does it for Steve.

He nods and licks his lips, breaking eye contact to look at the counter. “I think--I think it probably started the night I came over. I may have taken…I just, I get so anxious being around people, you know? And I knew Sam was going to be here and I didn’t want to…I didn’t want to have an anxiety attack. So I just took a couple of my pills, the doctor gave them to me a while back, I don’t take them often but...”

Bucky’s lips press into a tight line but he doesn’t say anything. “I know, well, I guess maybe in the back of my head I knew that you aren’t supposed to mix them with alcohol…I just didn’t think too much about it. Or at all really. And then when I got home, I was so…happy. It was a good night, a _good_ night and I don’t have those often so I was kind of exhilarated…but then I realized the reason it had been such a good night...It was because of _you_ …and then I realized you weren’t there. Its…its not the first time it happened. After we watched the game that time, Christmas, I’d thought about it then too. I just, Im not around people a lot, y’know? All of my friends are still in the service and I don’t have any family. I guess I hadn’t realized how much it was affecting me until I _was_ around someone. I beat myself up for not realizing, for getting so…so low. So depressed. But this time it…it hit me really hard. It was like…like a bullet straight to the gut. It _hurt._ Everything I said last night, the same thoughts, they kept eating at me and I was just…hurting. I couldn’t shake it. It was overwhelming. _Gosh_ and then, I knew—I _know_ —that I can’t ask that of you. It was a spiral that just continued…I woke up feeling like shit, decided to ride out to Glen Cove. I was ok for most of the ride there but on the way back it just go to be too much again. I meant to go home and sleep it off but I looked up and I just…I just found myself here.”

Bucky nods, silence looms for a moment that seems incredibly longer than it is.

“You said you can’t ask _that_ of me…what-- what does that mean?”

Steve takes a deep breath. “I want…I like being around you and Maya. I don’t feel alone, I don’t feel so empty so…desolate. but I couldn’t ask you to let me into your life…I just… Its not just…depression. Its so much more. I know that you cant—fix me or whatever, I wouldn’t ask you to do that but its not fair to ask or expect or—or think that you’d let me hang around like…broken.”

There’s a pause, wherein Steve prepares for Bucky to confirm his statement—that no, Steve cant continue hanging around as he is and Bucky can’t fix him and so, clearly, he needs to leave, and in which Bucky just looks at Steve in wonder, wonder that this man—so captivating to Bucky, so commanding, and caring, and kind, sweet, and shy, and blushing, could ever thing Bucky would throw him out the door for being troubled.

“Steve…” Bucky starts, “I know you’ve got a hero complex--”

Steve furrows his brow and opens his mouth to argue, but Bucky just shakes his head, his hand finding Steve’s cheek to console him. “Steve Rogers, all of 90 pounds, smart talking his way into a black eye so some bully’s original prey could get away. ” He says with a smile and a raised eyebrow. “Classic hero complex. You want to save the world, and the crazy part is that you could. Its why you were chosen for Force Recon, why you’re a Captain instead of a just a regular old NCO. Its probably at least part of the reason why you won’t get help with your PTSD and depression. And I know its why you really believe that you’re doing something wrong by coming to me. You’re a good man. You want to save the world. You want to save yourself. You don’t want anyone else to feel any hurt, so you take it all. Besides, you can take a punch where the other man can’t, you can put on a brave face, hold it inside, keep it together. Right? But you don’t have to be the hero here. Nothing bad will happen to me or to Maya if you hang around—except maybe Maya getting even more obsessed with the Marine Corps that she already is.”

Steve laughs and Bucky smiles in triumph, runs his finger against Steve’s jaw and lets their foreheads knock together. His voice is nostalgic—hushed and barely above a whisper—when he speaks. “The day you came to the VA, I could tell you hadn’t been sleeping. Nightmares, I’m assuming. I was so worried about you, I didn’t even know you but...” Bucky chuckles. “When I ran into you downtown you were in the middle of an anxiety attack. You showed up at my door last night shaking like a leaf, you...you fell to pieces in my living room…and I still want you around, Steve. The depression or anxiety or nightmares or PTSD, you’re not that. It’s a part of you, but its not all you are. You’re Steve. Find-my-kid-in-the-grocery-store, laugh-at-my-bad-jokes, tell-me-stories-about-your-childhood-so-I’ll-feel-better Steve. If I’m hurt by _any_ thing it’s the idea of _not_ having your around, not the idea of having you around while you’re still working through your trauma. And you’re right I can’t ‘fix you.’ but…I--I _like_ you, Steve, and whatever I can do to help you I’ll do. Its no trouble, its no burden, its…its just something you do when you like someone, I guess…”

Steve’s gasp is so soft its barely audible—Bucky’s words fill him, flourish inside of him, warm him from fingertips to toes as he relishes in them— _nothing bad will happen…I still want you…I like you_ —he shouldn’t believe it but he does. He does because he acts hard on the outside but really all he wants is for someone to tell him its ok…someone to tell him its alright for him to need help, someone to tell him that he isn’t ‘too much,’ that he’s not being a burden, that—

“You like me even though I’m broken?” He murmurs.

“You’re not broken Stevie, just a little bruised. But yes, yes I like you. Broken, bruised, I like you, Steve.”

Bucky nuzzles at Steve’s nose with his own—gently, a caress, a comfort, a…question?

“Steve I…please let me know if—if its too fast or if I’ve read this— _us—_ all wrong but I…I would really like to kiss you now.”

Steve wants to find it in his throat to say _yes, please_ but the words are all stuck, meddled with his emotions and maybe a last bit of lingering anxiety that he just cant shake. He opts to instead move forward, closing the small gap Steve’s left between them. When his mouth presses to Bucky’s he can feel it everywhere in his body. Warm and just a little rough, Bucky’s lips light his nerves on fire. He needs this—he needs this kiss like oxygen to breathe, like water to drink, like light to see, like the answer to his every prayer…his _skin_ thrums, buzzes, hums with the emotion, its like electricity running through his body, Bucky’s lips, pressed to his, sucking his, pressing smaller, more delicate kisses to the corner of his mouth before kissing him again, setting him on fire again, bringing him alive again…

Bucky’s surprised but so pleasantly satisfied when Steve’s lips come crashing into his. They’re just as soft of they look, plump, luscious, but even more than that they connect Bucky to Steve. He’d thought grazing Steve’s skin was satiating, thought the moments the shared pressed together at the forehead were intimate, but kissing him—swallowing his breath, breathing into him—Bucky feels the life in Steve and it brings him alive, pushes him to kiss back with more fervor, his cheeks, his jaw, his lips, his mouth, his _lips._

There’s a sharp knock at the front door.

Pulling away from Steve is like coming off of morphine—it leaves Bucky dazed and a bit confused, with just a pleasant halo of the fog that was once settled over him. His brow furrows--no one visits him, not this early in the morning especially—and he frowns. “I, hold on.”

As he heads towards the door, Maya leaps up and runs along side him, probably just as curios as he is.

Looking through the peephole, Bucky finds that the woman on the step is petite and dressed in all black. Her hair is a short, curly, and a luscious red, and her eyes are hard--nearly feral with anger. Bucky’s hesitant when he pulls the door open and he barely has his mouth formed around the words ‘can I help you?’ before she’s speaking over him.

“I need to speak to Steve.” She begins tightly.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m really only asking as a formality, _”_ She says. Her voice is tense, laden with danger. “If you don’t get out of my way within the next three seconds—”

Maya—who’s standing beside Bucky, arm curled around one of his legs—shrinks away from the redhead’s sharp tone and increasing volume with a whimper. Bucky reaches for her instinctively. The woman’s words die and she tracks his movement until she sees the child wrapped around Bucky with fear in her eyes.

“Go to Steve, Maya. Now.” Bucky instructs. He gives her a push and, thankfully, she takes off. Bucky’s blood thrums hot in in veins. Its too early in the morning for this shit, who the hell does this woman think she is?

“I don’t take well to threats.” He grits. His anger is barely controlled. A threat to him, maybe, he could have tolerated. But Maya… “Especially not in my own home, and sure as _hell_ not around my kid.”

The redhead at least has the decency to look apologetic, her hands going up in surrender. “I’m sorry, I--”

“Save it.” Bucky cuts her off abruptly. “Who are you?”

“Look, there’s no need to be rude.”

“You show up at _my_ door and threaten _me_ , and you want to tell me about rude?”

“I need to see Steve.” She repeats.

Bucky snorts. “Like hell you do, lady. You need to get the fuck off my doorstep.”

“Look—”

“No _you_ look—”

“Tash? What are you doing here?” Bucky and Natasha are too busy glaring at each other to hear Steve approaching, but their attention is drawn to him when his voice tops both of theirs. He’s holding Maya on one hip, but she’s quick to climb down and run to Bucky.

“Denny, I don’t wike it.” She mumbles into his shoulder, clutching his neck and peeking at the redheaded woman. Bucky clutches Maya to his chest with his left arm and forces himself to calm down. He’d told Steve earlier that Maya was especially perceptive and intuitive—it hadn’t been a lie. If he doesn’t control his anger he’ll only upset her more. 

“You need to leave.” Bucky tells the woman. Again, the anger has drained from her face and she looks apologetic. Steve is watching too, and he steps up until he’s standing beside Bucky.

“Wait, whats going on?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know.” Bucky says, pointedly not taking his eyes off the woman. “Quite frankly, I don’t think I care.”

“Sergeant Barnes I don’t mean to have upset your little girl, I was out of line.” She starts, “Steve and I are friends, and I’d appreciate it if I could speak to him here. _”_

Steve’s look is apologetic but he nods. “Its ok, Buck.”

Bucky moves to the side and allows the redhead inside, closing the door behind her. He thinks that maybe he should leave, but he finds himself rooted to his spot, watching. 

 _“_ Steve, _дурак,_ I swear to God I could kill you.” She hisses, voice low but not low enough to escape Bucky’s trained ear. “I went to your apartment last night and you weren’t there. I waited but you _never_ _came_ _back_. I’ve been calling you since **midnight.** For Christ’s sake I thought you’d driven your Harley off a bridge or something!”

“Tasha…”

“Don’t ‘Tasha’ me _._ I’m not being irrational, Rogers. Последний раз я говорю вам—”

“I was _fine.”_

 _“_ Noyou **weren’t,** Steve.” Steve sucks his teeth.

“You’re not my mother, Natasha.”

“Im not, but I can imagine what would she think about the way you’ve been handling this, cant you?” She challenges. Steve flinches and Bucky finds himself taking a step forward. That was a low blow. Bucky knows Steve’s already feeling vulnerable; he feels the need to protect him, even from his friends. He doesn’t know whether that’s good or bad, but right now he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Hey.” He says. Her head snaps around and she gives him a pointed look, but he doesn’t back down. “Look, I let you in here because Steve asked me to.” He tells her. “There’s _no need to be rude_ to him.” The sass is heavy but Bucky’s surprised to find she doesn’t come at him in turn. Instead there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes, fleeting, but Bucky is sure he saw it 

“Получил себе сторожевая собака?” She says, turning back towards Steve. Whatever it is she says has Steve’s cheeks flushing red.

“Он ... защитная.”

“Он заботится о вас?”

Steve bites his lip before answering, “Da.”

“ты в порядке?”

“Da.”  Steve’s voice is tired. “Yes, I swear, Natasha.”

Natasha glances at Bucky, who’s still standing there, cradling Maya and watching the pair of them. She sucks her teeth and sighs.

“Fine. But I swear to god Rogers you better call me. And turn your ringer on for Christ’s sake.”

“Yea, love you too, Tash.” Steve mutters, and as fast as she came she’s gone, a blur of black and red out the door.

Steve groans and rubs both hands over his face.

“Im sorry.” He finally manages. “My friend, Natasha. She can be sort of…prickly around the edges. But she’s been the only thing I’ve got for a long time and she…worries. I—can we, I mean could we not talk about it?” Bucky nods, moves so he’s able to take Steve’s hand into his.

“Of course.” Steve sighs in relief, but he still can’t meet Bucky’s eyes.

“Hey Maya, you ok?” Steve asks, taking her hand in his. She surprises the both of them by leaning out of Bucky’s arms and reaching for Steve.

“Iss you feew bettew?” She asks, putting both hands on his face. Steve laughs.

“Yes, I feel better.” Maya nods.

“I wunna wash Peppa.” She says, laying her head on Steve’s shoulder. She holds her hand out to Bucky but makes no move to leave Steve’s arms. “C’mon Denny.”

In the living room Maya sprawls out on the floor and watches Peppa Pig while Steve sits closer-than-strictly-necessary on the couch. A few minutes pass before Bucky drapes his arm over Steve’s shoulder and tugs him a bit closer. A few more before Steve curls up under Bucky’s arm and presses into his side. Its almost the end of the episode when Steve looks up at the same time that Bucky happens to look down and they both chuckle nervously but cant look away. Bucky’s lips press to Steve’s so softly, everything comes rushing back uncontrollably. Its just like the first time, except better.

___

 

the russian translation

“Got yourself a guard dog?” She says, turning back towards Steve. 

“He's ... protective.”

“He's taking care of you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ok?”

“Yes.” Steve’s voice is tired. “I swear, Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so every person who creates any sort of art, be it writing or otherwise, is always its worst critic. but honestly, for the most part i like this story, and don't have a lot bad to say about it. and then this chapter.i HATED this chapter. idk wtf, i had so much writers block and it was just bleh blah wtf the entire time. alas, i can't really do anything else to is so I'm going to post it and i really hope you guys like it. xo


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mini-chapter: im-sorry-i-havent-updated-in-a-month fluff

**3 JANUARY 2015**

Steve stayed at Bucky’s all of the previous day.

 

_“I…um, is it ok if I hang out here today?” He mumbled into Bucky’s lips as they sat on the couch. “I don’t--I don’t know if I’m ready… to …to go home.”_

_‘To be alone’ is what he means, and Bucky understands even though the words ae unspoken. He finds Steve’s hand; its heavy and warm and his fingers cling to Bucky’s own with the air of desperation. Bucky, hoping to quell Steve’s lingering anxieties smiles and lets his other hand cup Steve’s cheek._

_“Of course. You’re always welcome here.”_

 

 

When Peppa Pig had finally gone off Maya drug Bucky and Steve to her room to play ‘pretend.’ Bucky had tried to tell Maya that Steve probably didn’t want to play, but to his surprise Steve’d smiled and shook his head, said it was fine and told Maya he’d love to play pretend with her. So they’d both been knights as she played princess and ruled over her stuffed animals and dolls, and pigs hiding in blankets-turned-straw-houses when she declared herself the big bad wolf. Steve had been a monster and she’d squealed with delight, holding Bucky’s hand as they ran through the house while Steve chased them. Steve had also been a horse when she decided she was a cowboy, and Bucky—the sheriff—had laughed at the sight of Steve crawling around with Maya on his back. By the time lunchtime rolled around both men had been exhausted.

 

_“You do this every day?!” Steve asked when Bucky reappeared from putting Maya down and dropped onto the couch next to him._

_Bucky laughed. “No, not at all. She’s got a great imagination, but usually its one game of pretend and then something more…sedate. Blocks or coloring or reading or something…Today though—its you, I told you she likes you.”_

_Steve doesn’t know why, but he blushes at that._

 

They’d sat on the couch and talked: about their childhoods and their decisions to enlist, about things they’d enjoyed and things they’d hated about the military, about adjusting to civilian life, about Bucky going back to school and his potential job offer with Stark Industries, about what Steve liked to do in his spare time, things he hadn’t done since he’d been back and dealing with his trauma—getting lost in the city he grew up in looking for inspiration for his drawings, going to Coney Island and allowing himself to indulge his inner-child. Bucky had kissed Steve every time either of them said something that made him frown.

 

_“You know you can’t kiss me all better…” Steve says after the third or fourth time Bucky’s covered his frown in a kiss._

_“I know, but it makes you smile. Since I can’t do anything to make you better, I figure it’s the least I can do. Make you smile.”_

_Steve reddens, deep crimson coloring his cheeks, his neck, and peaking out through the collar of his shirt._

_To be honest, Bucky’s surprised himself. He can’t deny thinking it—he_ will _do anything to see Steve’s eyes sparkle with a genuine smile—but he’s still shocked at the way the words flow from his lips without his complete permission._

_“I-you-I...” Steve fumbles, before finally murmuring, “Sap.”_

_Bucky’s laugh is honest and without denial, overjoyed at the idea that yes, he is a sap, that Steve makes him a sap, that he’s allowed to be sappy with Steve, that Steve might even like his sappiness._

_In fact… “You like it.”_

_Its not an accusation or a question, but rather an observation—not just in the way Steve blushes, but in the way he smiles and tries to hide it, the way his head is ducked in an attempt to avoid Bucky’s eyes, in the way the word had been said with fondness and without heat. It makes Bucky grin and before he knows it he’s kissing Steve all over again._

When their conversation died they’d simply sat in comfortable silence, facing one another on the couch, each with an arm balanced on the back of the chair. Steve hadn’t been able to remember the last time he was so unbothered by the quiet.

Eventually, they’d turned toward the TV and Bucky had flipped through the channels until Steve remembered there was supposed to be a forties movie marathon on TCM and _insisted_ that they at least watch one film. Bucky hadn’t laughed because even in his insistence Steve had seemed hesitant, almost shy, but he had mumbled a fond ‘old man’ under his breath as he pulled Steve close to him and settled in to watch _The Third Man._

The rest of the day had been pleasantly domestic.

Maya woke up halfway through _Casablanca_ not fully rested and after Bucky’s retrieved her from upstairs, she’d simply settled in his arms on the couch, surprisingly contented to ‘watch’ the film with Steve and Bucky. They make it through _It’s a Wonderful Life_ before Steve’s stomach started to growl. Maya played with her blocks behind the couch while Bucky rummaged through the kitchen for food and Steve stepped into the foyer to call Natasha. Dinner went much as breakfast had, with Maya chattering away while Steve and Bucky sat, amused, but in relative silence.

Darkness had just settled over the city when Steve grew restless.

 

_It took about 5 minutes of Steve fiddling over his hands for Bucky to notice he was anxious._

_“Hey, Steve, you ok?” He asked with a careful hand to Steve’s shoulder._

_“Oh, huh? Yea. Yea I’m ok.” Steve stuttered. “Its getting late…I should, I guess I should probably get going.”_

_“Are you sure?”_

_“Does it matter?”_

_“Well…yea. You can stay if you want…”_

 

Now, Bucky wakes slowly, warm and contented with the big lug that is one Steve Rogers wrapped in his arms. Steve is curled up, his arms tucked into his chest and his face pressed to Bucky’s, making himself small in Bucky’s grasp. Bucky wonders if it’s a consequence of Steve being so little for all those years, the way he folds up into the fetal position, lessens the amount of space he takes up and tucks into the crevices of Bucky’s body as best as he’ll fit. The thought causes a gentle smile to touch his lips; he imagines a smaller Steve Rogers trapped inside the larger body, trying to pretend he’s as invincible as his bigger, buffer body makes him seem. But even if he is built like a tank, Bucky knows he’s not mentally and emotionally invincible, and now all balled up and cuddly he doesn’t seem so physically invincible either.

A wave of protectiveness runs through Bucky—it’s a physical sensation, a quivering in his skin and quickening of his heartbeat and his arms involuntarily tightening to pull Steve closer. He vows to himself that he’ll take care of Steve, cringing at the fact that despite the newness of their relationship its not for the first time.

But novelty or none, he knows the feeling is genuine. He’ll sit with Steve during any panic attack, he’ll hold his hand after every nightmare, he’ll listen patiently to rambled anxieties, he’ll defend him on every end, fight for him if he has to—and he’ll hold him tight in the grey light of morning, contented by the knowledge that Steve is safe in his arms.

Bucky hums audibly--a sound of approval accompanying his last thought--and again pulls Steve closer, dropping a small kiss on his forehead.

Though slight, the movement seems to stir Steve from him slumber. He tenses, breath catching, brow crinkling.

“Sh Sh.” Bucky soothes immediately. “You’re ok, Its me.”

“Buck?”

“Yea, its just me. Go back to sleep.”

“S’okay M’awake.” He says, just as Bucky lifts a hand and runs his fingers through Steve’s short golden locks. Steve’s eyes flutter shut, having been barely open in the first place, and Bucky chuckles. “Wuts’funny?” Steve slurs “M’up.”

“Are you?” The smile taking over Bucky’s face is evident in his voice.

“Mm..mhm...” Steve’s answer turns into a hum and then a moment of silence, Bucky’s fingers scratching gently at his scalp. “S’not fair..cheating.”

Bucky laughs. “There’s no game Steve. How am I cheating?”

Bucky’s not sure if Steve’s considering his statement or if he’s fallen back asleep, but he doesn’t respond. The room is silent again, and the air is full of warmth and calm and safety.

“Wah time izit?” Steve asks after a few minutes.

“Got some place to go?”

Silence lingers, swallowing the warm, calm, safety that had just encompassed the room seconds prior.

Steve is quiet, but Bucky hears him all the same.

“Don’t--” He starts

“I should go…” Steve interrupts.

“Steve.”

Bucky cant lie and say that he isn’t confused about how Steve so quickly went from sleepy and adorable to escape mode, but he carefully schools his voice to a calm neutral, lest his confusion come off as frustration and push Steve farther away.

“I don’t..I don’t belong here.”

“You abso-fucking-lutely belong here. What makes you think you don’t belong here?”

Steve shakes his head. “I—I cant just stay here forever, Bucky. We just—I just—whatever _this_ is between us it just started and I can’t just _move in,_ I cant just—just _avoid_ my apartment because its—because I—because its scary or lonely or whatever. Its not…I don’t…” Steve’s voice dies off and his eyes close again, frustration knits his brows, causes crinkles in his forehead.

“Ok.” Bucky says. “Ok. I hear you…you’re saying that you need to go back to your apartment, for you.”

Eyes closed, Steve nods.

“That’s understandable but, hey, look at me Stevie, please? That doesn’t mean that you don’t belong here, ok? I…I agree with you. As much as I love waking up to you in my bed, we’re probably moving kind of fast. But don’t ever _ever_ think that you don’t have a place here. Moving fast or not if you wanted to go get your stuff and move in right now I’d drive you.You belong here, Steve."

Steve drops his gaze but Bucky is quick to tip his chin to catch his eye again.

"Here Steve." He tells him, "With me, with _us._ ”

and he means it, with every fiber of his soul. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys.   
> ok, so I'm still super overwhelmed by the support this story is getting. like WOW, you guys rock my socks off. fucking amazing, seriously. 
> 
> sorry its been so long for this measly trash update, I'm relocating in a week and its super unimaginably stressful 
> 
> PLUS I'm still having hella writers block on this fic, come hang out with me on tumblr (stverogersthat) and we can talk about it (seriously, i need to talk about this with someone, gah) 
> 
> your kudos are so appreciated, your comments give me life.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you probably want to refresh yourself on the past few chapters before reading this one, its flows much better that way

“What’s the matter with you?” Steve hisses at his reflection. He’s standing in Bucky’s en suite staring at himself in the mirror. The tile is cool against his bare feet and he tries to focus on that sensation rather than the self-loathing building in his chest. This morning had been perfect; he’d woken up wrapped in Bucky’s arms, the soothing sound of Bucky’s voice gracing his ears and the gentle press of Bucky’s lips against his skin and the tender scratch of Bucky’s fingernails against his scalp. It had been lazy and comfy and wonderful until he’d started getting stuck in his head. His head told him that he’d been avoiding reality, that the reality was that he’d been in Bucky’s house for two days, that he’d abandoned his own apartment in favor of living in a utopia.

“Stop it.” He said to himself in the mirror as he found himself headed down the same rabbit hole again. But it was true, this was a utopia—that’s what every moment of being with Bucky was. It was too warm and too safe and too right. It was the exact opposite of where he’d been just a year ago—but in some ways it was just the same. His time in the desert had been excruciating and for all intents and purposes he shouldn’t have survived, but even when the sun was so hot his skin blistered until he was 90% open wounds, and when his stomach was so empty that he didn’t even have bile to throw up, and when he’d been dehydrated and heat exhausted and beaten within an inch of his life, he _had_ and just like this…this…this whatever it was with Bucky, his survival had been unreal. It had been a hope, a fantasy, because Steve… he hadn’t survived at all. A part of him had died in that desert, the part that may ever have the capacity to be whole again. And so he knew this, what he had with Bucky, he knew that it, too, was unreal. He knew that even if it looked on the outside to be a perfect utopia, a miracle, that on the inside it wasn’t, and it was high time he pulled his head out of his ass--

 

“Get out of your head.” Steve whipped around to see Bucky leaning on the doorframe of the en suite and admonished himself both for not hearing Bucky come in and for not locking the door.

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you _are._ I just offered to let you move in with me, what else could I have to do to let you know that thisis for real?”

Steve winced at the words. _See?_ He said to himself _Did you really think he was going to deal with_ all _your different types of crazy and not get frustrated? Its been_ one day _and you’ve already pushed him too far._

Bucky watched as Steve visibly retreated further into himself. His shoulders drew up and his eyes went immediately panicked and Bucky cursed himself for saying anything. He’d been trying to be playful, but playful was obviously not what Steve needed right now, not in whatever headspace he was in. He'd been teetering on the edge and in his efforts to pull him back, Bucky had clearly just pushed him right over the edge.

“I told you…I told you.. I knew you couldn’t..” Steve babbled. “and..and you shouldn’t _have_ to. I’ll just.. Its ok.. I’ll just--” Bucky cursed himself again and moved to block the exit to the bathroom for which Steve was headed.

“Steve, _Steve,”_ He grabbed the man’s face in both of his hands pressed their foreheads together. “Hey it was a bad joke ok? I was only joking. And I _can._ I know you don’t believe it yet, but whatever you were gonna say--that I cant handle it or whatever--its not true.”

 _Don’t believe it_ Steve said to himself, shaking his head. _Its not real, its not, its not…_

“C’mon Steve, its ok. You with me?”

_Its not, its not, its not…_

“C’mon Stevie, come back to me.” He moved one hand from Steve’s face and grabbed the man’s hand, hoping to ground him. “I didn’t mean it, ok? Just come back to me, I’m here.”

“Its not real…” Steve all but whimpered, and that broken voice was enough to make Bucky's heart ache. Not knowing what else to do, he pressed his lips to Steve’s with all the passion he could muster. It took Steve a moment to respond, clearly confused at first, and then flailing a bit, but he _did_ respond eventually kissing Bucky back albeit not as passionately and not as sure. Bucky didn’t take it as discouragement. He melded himself to the man he could easily find himself loving and put his all into that kiss, until, standing barefoot on the bathroom floor, Steve was putting his all into it too. When they broke, each was winded and Bucky was glad to see that Steve’s eyes seemed less panicked and, more importantly, were now able to find his own.

“Its real.” Bucky whispered the words that Steve had needed to hear, soft, airy, and just for Steve’s ears. "Its real, Stevie. Its real." 

“I..I know” Steve said. “Im sorry.”

“Don’t be. I shouldn’t have said that, it wasn’t what you needed right then." He told him, stroking his cheek. "I’m still learnin’ alright? But I _am_ learning. I’m gonna learn just how to love you Steve Rogers…I swear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, i think i might be finally getting over my block. I know this chapter is short, but I just felt like the whole "Steve and Bucky get together after Steve crashes at Bckys for like two days" arc needed a bit more something before I could move forward, and I think this is it. 
> 
> Coming up it the possibly near future: Steve goes to counseling, Steve and Maya bonding, Bucky continuing to fuck up in his efforts to love Steve the right way and Steve probably (cough cough:definitely:cough cough) forgiving him for it. 
> 
> feedback pleassseeeeeee


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